


Matches and Mayhem

by ThisWasInevitable



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mutual Pining, No period transphobia or homophobia, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Spanking, Trans Duck Newton, danbrey, indruck, meet ugly, sternclay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24500707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisWasInevitable/pseuds/ThisWasInevitable
Summary: Lady Aubrey Little is under pressure to marry. Dani, her bosom friend, wants only to support her. Joseph Stern potential suitor, would rather this not be happening. Barclay, soft-spoke cook, just tries to avoid stirring up trouble. Duck Newton, gardener, is busy cultivating his own life away from the chaos of the hall. Prediction savant Indrid Cold steps right into it.It is a truth universally acknowledged that when all those desires collide with guardians with ulterior motives, beneath one roof, in a year without a summer, romance, passion, and maybe even disaster will surely bloom.
Relationships: Barclay/Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone), Dani/Aubrey Little, Indrid Cold/Duck Newton
Comments: 13
Kudos: 111





	1. Introductions and Inferrences

**Author's Note:**

> I got two reader requests I decided to pair, one for a Regency AU and one for sternclay and danbrey are arranged to marry the wrong person.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a husband.

It is a truth somewhat less acknowledged that subjecting a woman to an endless parade of suitors may cause thoughts of arson, bodily harm, or running away to join an abbey. 

Aubrey Little, heiress of Sylvain Hall is considering all three as her guardian, Arthur Woodbridge, greets the newest in the never-ending stream of men and women sent to court her favor. 

“Alright, let’s have a wager.” She whispers to her maidservant, “too old, too young, or such an ill-fit that he’s proof Woodbridge is getting desperate.”

“I suspect the last one.” Dani smiles, “oh, hold still Miss, you’ve got stray fur up and down your shoulders. Your furry gentleman must have done that when you were holding him.”

“See, another reason I hate this is that it forces you to call me things like that. Any suitor worth my time will not take issue with you and I being best friends since we were children.”

“Agreed, but I’ll do anything to avoid one of Mr. Woodbridge’s lectures.”

“Ugh, true. Is Dr. Harris Bonkers ready?”

“In his basket. Asleep.”

“Good enough. Aaaand here they are.” Aubrey turns, sitting up just straight enough to be polite but no so straight that her posture could be mistaken for interest. 

“Lady Aubrey, may I present Mr. William Hayes Stern and his son, Mr. Joseph Stern.” Vincent, the butler, shows two men into the room. Dani curtsy. Aubrey stays put. The elder Stern is taking the room in with a keen eye, while the younger is obviously waiting for an invitation to sit. 

This is test number one.

“Mr. Stern, erm, no, you Mr. Stern, not you, Mr. Woodbridge would like to meet with you in his study. This way please.”

After the two men depart, Joseph takes a seat on the nearby divan. Close enough for conversation, but not assuming an intimacy that isn’t there. He’s well dressed, with black hair, blue eyes, and features that Aubrey is sure are somebodies type. They’re just not hers. 

“I’m sorry, but I didn't get your name.” This he says to Dani, and Aubrey sees her raise one golden eyebrow. 

“Dani, sir. Her ladyships maid.”

“A pleasure to meet you both, then.” He nods politely.

Well, at least she won’t have to actively throw him out into the hall for being rude to her friend. She has done so, twice before, and Dani teases her endlessly for being her noble hero. 

“Soooo” Aubrey props her heels up on a stack of books, “what do you do, Mr.Stern?”

“I’m a scientist by trade. I have an interest in studying rare or supposedly mythological animals.” It’s a practiced answer, as if he’s said this a hundred times. He really is remarkably calm, given the look Aubrey is directing his way. 

“Ever seen an animal like this?” She winks at Dani, who nudges Dr.Harris Bonkers awake. The immense, white rabbit snuffles, then hops from his basket and across the floor, tiny bell on a red collar jingling as he does. 

“Oh!” Stern bends forward, holding out his hand for the rabbit to sniff, “hello. Aren’t you nice?” He tactfully pulls the ends of his coat away from questing teeth. 

“This is a test, isn’t it Ms. Little?” He says, petting the rabbit’s nose.

“What gave it away?”

“In spite of what my father might claim, I’m neither gullible nor unobservant. You and Dani keep sending little glances and signals to each other, which suggests you’re both evaluating me. The _way_ you do it suggests it’s a game, not a genuine interest in determining if I’m a good potential husband”

“Yep.” Aubrey shrugs, “you got us. No offense to you, Mr. Stern, but you’re not my type.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Stern sits up with an actual smile, “because you’re not mine. My own predilections are of the more,uh, masculine variety.”

“Ha! You fit in well with us, then. Dani prefers ladies, and I prefer, well, both.” 

“Glad to know I’m among friends.”

“Wait” Dani turns to Stern, “how come you’re here then?”

“For similar reasons to why I suspect Ms. Little is being subjected to me. My father wants a grand-heir, badly, and has decided finding me a wife is the way to ensure that.”

Aubrey rolls her eyes, “Yeah, he and Woodbridge will get along great. Hmmmm” she taps her chin, “I mean, if we’re all in agreement that this is not for us, how about a tour of the grounds? That’s polite and ladylike right?” She looks to Dani, who makes a face to suggest she thinks so, but is not quite sure.

“We should play up the ruse as well, while we’re out, in case either of those two old goats are watching.”

“In that case” Stern stands, offers Aubrey his arm with an exaggerated tone, “would my lady be so kind as to show me around the grounds?”

\--------------------------------------

The sky’s granted them a break in the spring drizzle as the trio traipses through the gardens. In spite of the early season, they’re already lush and blooming. When he comments on it, Aubrey points off into the distance, where a man in a wide brimmed hat is bent over some planters. He spies them when he straightens, and waves their way. 

“He takes care of the entire grounds. Before he got here it we, well, it was well kept but it didn’t have as much life.” Aubrey muses, carefully guiding Dani around a puddle. The two women are arm in arm, Stern having released Aubrey once they were out of sight of the house. Had he not already been uninterested in Aubrey romantically the glimpse he got of the chaos in her room when she stopped to fetch a bonnet would have done it. The two women whisper and giggle, but also include him in more pleasant conversation than he’s seen in at least a month. 

“Careful, if your guardian catches us, he may scold us for improprietously going for a walk.”

“Pssh” Aubrey waves a gloved hand dismissively, “if he does I can say it’s a leftover habit from America.”

“Aubrey, we’ve been doing that for ten years.” Dani snickers.

“So? It still works.”

“I was wondering what your accent was.”

“Yep! I lived in America until I was ten. When, um, when I lost my mother and father.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, me too. Woodbridge is my mother’s brother. He hated that she went to America, let alone that she got married when she was there. Some days I think part of why he’s so odd in how he acts towards me; I remind him of her, but only the parts he didn't like."

“Or he’s just worried about what you’ll do with the estate when you come of age.” Dani adds. 

“That too.”

“Let me guess...if you’re married off, he hopes whatever spouse you have will reign in whatever habits he’s so afraid of?”

“Astute.” Dani turns them back towards the house.

“I make _one_ joke about turning this place into a sanctuary for hares and other hunted animals, or about running off to become a magician, and he decides to put a notice in the paper saying I’m of age to be married. I wonder if he ever figured out we had Barclay and Vincent only deliver that to half the papers they were supposed to?”

Stern chuckles at the image of Sylvain Hall overrun by wiggling noses and whiskers, “I don’t envy Woodbridge his self-created battle; you’re a formidable opponent, Aubrey.”

“You should have seen his face the first time she argued with him. Vincent nudged the nearest seat closer in case the old man fainted.”

Stern laughs again, notices they’ve arrived at a wooden back door.

“We’re going in so soon?”

“Just to the kitchen. Barclay mentioned he was making cheesecakes for dinner and if we’re in time we might be able to nab some.”

“Can’t we just...have it at dinner?”

“It tastes better this way.” Aubrey winks as Dani pushes open the door. 

The kitchen is warmly lit, for having only one window, and a tad too hot for him in his full suit. A youngish man with a mop of blonde hair is darting back and forth like an otter in a stream, carrying trays and dumping ingredients into bowls. The space is remarkably organized and clean for how much use it must get. 

“Kinda thought you two would show up.” A baritone voice, American like the women’s, rises to greet them from a figure bending to peer in a nearby oven. The man straightens, turns and, upon noticing Stern, offers a short bow.

“Uh, I mean three of you.”

“Barclay this Mr. Joseph Stern.” 

“As in the family that’s visiting today?” Barclay looks up, curious, “Who are you and what have you done with Aubrey?”

“I think I’m just the first suitor to admit I hate the whole business as much as she does.”

When Stern speaks, Barclay faces him full on for the first time and he learns the man is a contradiction. Brown hair, rather longer than is fashionable, and coppery beard frame a face that’s at once rugged and gentle. He’s tall enough that Stern, standing at six foot, has to look up slightly to speak to him, yet he seems almost as if he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. As if his broad frame is something he must conceal.

“Yeah, that’s a first. God, remember the one who insisted Aubrey was just playing hard to get when she told him she wasn’t interested?” He turns to Stern, look of nervous geniality on his face suggesting he finds his prescence cause for alarm but is trying very hard not to show it, “Duck and I had to, uh, escort him from the premises.”

“Only because I came to say if you didn’t, she was going to run him off with a firepoker.” Dani corrects, sitting down on a stool as Aubrey shudders at the memory.

“Here, this oughta take your mind off it.” Barclay produces a third of a cheesecake, “I made it yesterday. Well, I actually made two, to help me decide on the flavor for tonight. Rhubarb won. I’m usually damn, uh, excuse me” he smiles sheepishly at Stern, “good on my flavors, but not even cheesecake can keep lavender from tasting like a mouthful of soap.”

Dani grabs a knife, cutting three slices when Barclay declines to join them. The cake is so toothsome Stern has to cover his mouth to prevent a moan from slipping out. Out of the corner of his eye, from the corner of the room, he spots a small curve to Barclay’s mouth as he watches him eat. 

They pass an hour so in the kitchen, Dani teasing Jake, Barclay’s assistant, between Aubrey feeding her bites of cake. Barclay and Stern both stay mostly quiet, Stern unable to shake the sense he’s in the way. A blemish on their usual scene of merriment. 

After that, Aubrey retires for her lessons with her tutor, Janelle, and Dani stays behind to be sure Barclay doesn’t need extra help. Vincent, perhaps sensing Stern’s unease, shows him to the library. 

“Oh dear” the butler picks up a vase full of dry flowers, “I’ll need to ask Duck to bring more. Or Dani, as she has an eye for such things.”

“Why do people keep mentioning a duck?”

Vincent blinks, then chuckles politely, “‘Duck’ is the gardener and groundskeeper. A fine young man, although his Virginian manner of speech takes some getting used.”

“Oh, I see.” Stern feels silly, covers with etiquette, “thank you Vincent, that will be all for now.”

He reads the few non-business related books he can find until dinner, at which point he joins the others at the table. Dani and Aubrey are seated across from him (“a concession to my niece’s fondness for her friend” Woodbridge says, in spite of no one commenting on it). 

The conversation is only as painful as an interrogation, and the respite comes in the form of the food. Every course is more delicious than the last, each flavor and pairing so well-matched, as if the ingredients had at last found their souls true mate. In spite of having tasted it earlier, he finds the cheesecake evokes the same reaction it did last time. 

He wonders just how risky it would be to steal Aubrey’s cook from her. Maybe they could split him, or he could visit under the pretense of business?

“So, Mr. Stern, I take it you had a pleasant day here?” Woodbridge turns his grey, severe gaze on him. Had he not grown up under his father, he might have flinched. 

“I did, thank you.”

“Then this next piece of news will be well received. You will be spending a great deal of time here.”

“Oh?” Stern’s sinking heart is mirrored on Aubrey’s face.

“You father and I have agreed that this is a most advantageous match. You and Aubrey will be married.”

“What?” The two women say on top of each other.

“There is not room for argument. Not on this one, dear niece.” Woodbridge sends Aubrey a look, and Stern watches a fire flare behind her eyes before flickering out. 

As Woodbridge signals for the table to be cleared, Stern can just hear Aubrey speak over the clank of silverware.

“Aw beans.”


	2. Arrangements & Accidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aubrey vents. Dani plans. Duck tries to get some sleep/

“I guess we played our roles too well.” Stern offers from his spot watching Aubrey pace in the sitting room. 

“I should have just chased you off with a firepoker.”

“I don’t think that would have done much. I get the feeling they decided this without ever seeing you two interacting.” Dani sits, Dr. Harris Bonkers on her lap. She worries the rabbits ears, trying to work free the knot in her chest that’s been there since Woodbridge announced the marriage.

“I can't believe I have to marry you!” 

“I’d be insulted were the feeling not mutual. I’m sorry, Aubrey, I don’t know how to proceed.”

Dani rubs the velvety fur on the rabbit’s nose. She has an idea, though the thought of watching it play out on the stage of her life for an indeterminate number of acts makes her ill. But it could help Aubrey, and that is of the utmost importance. 

“What if you play along? Mr. Woodbridge is surely anticipating a fight; seeming to go along with him may lower his guard. And, if you go along with him, you may have more control over the ceremony. Like the date, for instance.”

Aubrey stops pacing, and Dani watches her brown eyes light up with understanding. 

“We could keep pushing it back until we figure a way to stop it entirely!” 

“Of course!” Stern echos, grinning.

“Dani, you’re brilliant!” Aubrey runs, falling into her lap with a delighted laugh as she embraces her, “what would I do without you?”

“I don’t know.” Dani says softly, returning the embrace. She does not add the words dancing across the back of her tongue.

 _I don’t ever want us to find out._

\---------------------------

“Excellent aim, Aubrey.” Janelle claps politely as Aubrey retrieves her knife from the dartboard. 

“Thanks. I’m pretending it’s a certain someone’s face.”

“I assumed as much. Thus my choosing more, ah, active activities for today’s lessons.” The older woman glances at the clock, “we have time for a few more throws, then I believe we can conclude for the day.”

Aubrey nods, taking up her position across from the dart board. This is one of the many reasons she’s glad Janelle stayed on as her tutor; she always has a plan for when Aubrey needs to occupy herself with something other than reading, writing, or mathematics. 

She started with private tutors upon arriving at Sylvain, her uncle insisting that it was the only acceptable schooling for a young woman of her standing. Aubrey proceeded to go through five tutors in as many months. It was not out of malice, though she was prone to outbursts. But what ten year old in a strange land is not? 

No, those tutors were unable to make sense of her mind, how it worked. Her thoughts could go rapidly from one place to another like a frog hopping between puddles, she could focus on a topic for days on end yet struggle to focus on another of the same difficulty. She struggled to sit still for lecture upon lecture, recitation upon recitation, and so all five threw up their hands in surrender. 

Janelle was not so easily deterred. She took to walking with Aubrey in the gardens while she taught her, turned memorization into a game, helped her develop strategies for focus and discipline for the things she truly cared about. And when there were mornings when little Aubrey was not quite ready to leave bed, still a little lost in the memories of her mother and father, Janelle would simply say, “well, we can pick up our lessons tomorrow, then.”

As Aubrey grew, Janelle expanded her lessons to include an array of skills, among them close up magic, weapons use, and how to spot a someone who was attempting to con you.

“If you end up living your days only at Sylvain Hall, rather than out in the world, I shall eat my boots and my bonnet as well” was her explanation.

“I must admit, you are still taking this rather better than I expected.” Janell says over her shoulder as they begin tidying up the room.

“I...I guess I know I need to be smart about it. Pick my battles. And, well, this may sound silly, but as long as I have Dani with me I feel like everything will turn out okay.”

“She’s level-headed and kind, both valuable traits in a...friend.” 

Aubrey notes the hesitation before the word, but continues on, “She and I have gotten out of so much trouble together. I think we can get out of this too.” The conviction in her words is unshakable. 

It’s a pity, then, that Woodbridge happens to hear them through the door. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

“I’m, uh, afraid I don’t understand, sir.” Barclay twists the kitchen rag between his fingers.

“What is there to understand? You and Dani are going to be married.”

“Yes I, I understand that part. But why? I’ve shown no interest in it, and she’s busy with her work as Au-as Ms. Little’s companion.”

“It will be advantageous for everyone.”

“With all respect, sir, Dani is like a sister to me. That, let alone the fact you seem to be forcing her into this, makes me think-”

Woodbridge holds up his hand, “What you think does not matter, Barclay. You would be wise to follow orders. My niece can protect you, but only to a certain degree.”

The rag snaps in Barclay’s hands, but by the time Woodbridge looks down he’s hidden them behind his back. 

“Understood, sir.” He bows as the other man leaves, the slamming door making the flames in the lamps flicker perilously. 

Barclay sighs, slumps against the large wooden table, and wonders what on earth he’s going to say to Dani the next time they see each other.

\----------------------------------------------------

At this rate, Joseph is going to be mistaken for a ghost. He’s been up two nights in a row, unable to sleep and aimlessly wandering the halls in search of some distraction (or in the hopes that walking the miles of corridor will exhaust him to the point of slumber). The trunks his father ordered from their home are yet to arrive, likely due to the rain, and so he’s without the books that he usually used to occupy his mind. 

Tonight, he’s wandered towards the back of the house, not navigating in any meaningful way. The thudding of something on wood draws his attention, and pushes open the door to his left.

It’s the kitchen, more dimly lit than the last time he was in it, and with Barclay by himself at a work counter, back to Joseph.

The pounding stops.

“Something you need Ja-” Barclay turns, starts, and then bows, “sorry, Mr. Stern, I thought you were my assistant.”

“That’s alright. I expect you don’t usually get guests stumbling in here at this hour.”

“Yeah, not really many people up at” he glances at the clock, “half past four.” 

“I’ve had a hard time sleeping. I thought a walk might help.”

“Oh. O-kay.” Barclay’s eyes shift awkwardly between Joseph and the dough on the counter. 

“May, um, may I join you in here. We don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, and you can move me out of the way of your work as needed. I, um, I find your kitchen comforting.”

A small smile, “So do it. Here” Barclay pulls a stool to the large table at the center of the room, brushes flour from it, and gestures for Joseph to sit. He does, allowing the small, steady sounds of kitchen work to soothe the thoughts anxiously bumping into each other in his mind. 

“Are you, uh, liking it here, sir?” Barclay asks, turning the dough into a large bowl and covering it with a towel. 

“I am. Though the meals may be my favorite part.”

“Oh, uh, thank you.” He detects a faint pink on Barclay’s cheek as he turns to another bowl of ingredients. 

“Where did you learn?”

“To cook? Just, uh, just here and there. I worked in kitchens since I was thirteen, picked up a lot as I went.”

“Really?” He realizes that might sound rude and so adds hurriedly, “I mean, from the quality I assumed you were classically trained, maybe in France or Italy.”

Barclay chuckles, “Kind of you to say, but nope.”

“Did you come here with Aubrey and Dani?”

A shake of the head, “Nope, thought I knew the back in the states. Think I came to Sylvain about two years after Aubrey got here. I got lucky; a family friend recommended me to Vincent, and Woodbridge agreed to hire me. I was only seventeen at the time, so I see why he was nervous to have me as head cook.”

“Clearly you’ve proven yourself. Oh, thank you.” Barclay sets a mug of tea in front of him, along with a sugar bowl and small jug of cream. 

“You’re welcome. So, Dani mentioned you’re a researcher?”

“Of the unexplained, yes.” Joseph brightens, hoping for a chance to talk about his work. Then he remembers how that usually goes and switches topics “I should congratulate on your engagement.”

“Thanks.” Barclay’s friendly expression tightens, “and, um, congratulations on yours.”

“You know it’s a sham, don’t you?” He says, certain in his guess. 

Barclay relaxes, “yeah, Aubrey and Dani mentioned you three are trying to figure out a way to get you and her outta it.”

“We’re taking suggestions. Anything other than hiring a doppelganger so I can run off is an acceptable idea, although to be honest I haven’t entirely ruled it out.”

He gets a proper laugh for that one, rumbling and utterly charming.

“I’ll keep that in mind. So, uh, you were saying something about studying the unexplained? What does that mean? I mean, like, I sorta assume all science is the study of that in some way.”

“My interest is in areas that science struggles to explain, or doesn’t have sufficient data for. Psychical phenomena, spirits, even creatures unknown to our science books. Half the time what I turn up is nonsense; but even then it helps to be able to tell a frightened family that the strange screams in their barn are from owls, not evil spirits. Not that they were any less dangerous.”

“Oh?” Barclay is leaning against the table, hanging on his every word.

He turns so Barclay can see the right side of his face, and the white line near his ear, “the mother was not happy when I poked my head in.”

“That the most dangerous thing you run across?”

“For the time being. Though I’d dearly like to go to France to investigate the Beast of Gévaudan.”

“I thought that was a folktale.”

“Oh no” he spins so he’s fully facing Barclay on the stool, “it was very real…”

When he next looks at the clock, it’s nearly seven. That would explain why Barclay has taken out a basket of eggs and is busy making scones. 

“I didn’t realize we’d talked that long.”

“Didn’t really bother me-” Barclay looks at the door, “sir.”

Joseph turns and finds Woodbridge in the threshold. 

“Barclay, there will be a change in dinner plans tonight. We have an important guest coming and I prepared a list of dishes.”

“Of course, sir.” Barclay takes the list as Joseph glances at the three dishes Barclay has already started preparing for dinner, dishes he’d eagerly explained the process of to Joseph. 

“Good. And Mr. Stern, I will see you at breakfast shortly.”

“It will be my pleasure to join you.” Joseph nods politely and watches him go, turns back to find Barclay drumming his fingers nervously on the counter as he reads the list. 

“I should let you get to work. Thank you for letting me hang about.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” Barclay turns to the cabinets, pulling jars out and setting them in neat rows. Joseph makes his way to the door, then stops.

“May I seek you out if I have trouble sleeping again?”

Barclay looks at him clearly this time, and smiles, “sure thing. Uh, sir.” This is added as Vincent walks through back door. 

Joseph closes the door, the potential second meaning of his question only hitting him when it’s fully shut. No wonder he gets a flash of pleasure whenever Barclay calls him sir, in spite of him hating how formal the cook is forced to be at times. 

Worse, he realizes he would very much like to visit Barclay in such a way some night, in his cozy bedroom. Something that could land them both in a pile of trouble, and assuming Barclay even reciprocated his feelings. 

_Then again_ he muses as he changes out of his nightclothes, _what’s the harm in dreaming?_

\---------------------------------------

“And to top it all off, he has a nice ass.” Barclay mutters, face down in the one patch of dry dirt next to the vegetable patch he’s supposed to be harvesting from. 

“That’s rough, buddy.” Duck pats him on the back, returns to his weeding, “at least the fella seems decent. Gonna make it a lot easier to have him around all the time.”

“Good point. Even if it means my ‘fiance’ gets distracted every time he brings the main course in to dinner.” Dani teases. Barclay attempts a rude gesture but can’t manage it due to the position of his torso vis a vi the ground. Having yet to figure way out of their betrothal, he and Dani have settled on approaching the situation with a mixture of gallows humor and spite (for Woodbridge, not each other).

“Just because you can’t pick a flower don’t mean it ain’t nice to have around-arg, fuck, Dani, he’s doin’ it again.” Duck points to Dr. Harris Bonkers, currently gnawing through an unfortunate seedling.

“Dr. Harris Bonkers, we raised you better than that.” Dani nudges him with her toe. The rabbit honks, looks up at her disapprovingly, then sticks one large back foot out where it can groom it. 

“How about his old man? Hayes, I think Vincent keeps callin’ him.”

“Like Woodbridge but...more worrying. I can’t say why.”

“Although he’s not making me pull off a complex, seven course meal with less than twelve hours warning, so right now he’s slightly ahead of Woodbridge in my book. Speaking of which-” Barclay sits up with groan, “I gotta get back to the kitchen.”

Dani lifts the jeweled watch on her neck (an eighteenth birthday gift from Aubrey), “I should go in too. If it’s a fancy dinner, that means Aubrey and I have some serious dressing to do. Here, I can help take these in.” She grabs a basket of spring vegetables in one hand and the end of Dr. Harris Bonkers black velvet leash in the other. 

Duck stands too, brushing off the knees of his pants, “Barclay, lemme know if you need help tonight. I ain’t a cook, but I can chop potatoes and clean dishes with the best of ‘em.”

“Thanks, Duck.” The taller man pats his shoulder fondly before turning towards the house. 

Duck turns back to his work. Unlike his friends, his afternoon proceeds uninterrupted, weeding and pruning and planting until his list for the day is done. That’s how most days are for him, and in many ways he enjoys it. He loves his friends, but he doesn’t envy their positions. Fancy houses like Sylvain always end up overrun with politics and emotional storms, even for the staff. 

That is not the life for Duck. 

He likes this life, the one where he goes to the groundskeepers house at the end of the day, a house that’s all his. Where he makes a small dinner, feeds the cat, feeds the dog, and settles in to read or work on some small project until it’s time to sleep. He stays up a little later than normal, in case Barclay needs help, but no request comes. And so he climbs the stairs, turns out the lights, and tucks the blankets up around him, cat snoozing in a perfect loaf by his feet as the rain starts up again.

Two hours later, he is awoken by a god-awful racket from the side yard. 

He bolts downstairs, popping on his boots and dressing gown before exiting the backdoor.

“Beacon, down, down boy, c’mon, for fucks sake, there’s nothin’ wrong, it’s just a little rain.”

“I would posit something is rather wrong.” A voice lilts from the shadows. 

Duck peers towards the sound, and as his eyes adjust he finds a man in a black waist-coat, jacket, and trousers, with a red knotted scarf at his throat and even redder glasses perched on his nose.

Unfortunately, Duck’s attention sends Beacon’s the same way and the dog lunges, snapping at the intruder, who presses further back against the short, stone, garden wall while clutching a rectangular case to his chest.

Thank god he keeps the dog tied up close to his kennel at night. He stops short of the man, splashing mud on him when his front paws whack angrily at the ground. 

“Beacon, down.” 

The dog looks at him disparagingly before slinking back towards the kennel. 

“Sorry about that, Beacon’s bark is worse than his bite. Usually.”

“You will forgive me for not being convinced.” The man stands, not bothering to shake the mud from his clothes but adjusting his glasses, “he seems to be the hellspawn of a Doberman and a St. Bernard.” 

“He belonged to the previous groundskeeper. Mostly a guard dog, and in this case he actually did what he’s supposed to and let me know someone was intrudin’.”

“I was not intruding. I was lost.” The man says plainly as he shivers, “I am trying to find Sylvain Hall.”

Duck whistles, “Damn, you really did get turned around.”

“I am aware. That was why I climbed your little fence. I did not want to waste time looking for the front gate and wanted to ask for help, until your dog attacked me.” The man shivers again, and with each repeat of motion his tone grows more irritable. 

“Hey, watch that word. You say it around someone like Woodbridge and I’m in trouble; man hates any hint of me not doin' the utmost to be proprietous.”

“Very well. If you help me get to the hall, I will keep mum.”

Duck groans, “fine. C’mon.” He trudges around the yard, stopping only to grab an umbrella from the front room of the cottage. He keeps it over himself as they walk, the other man holding his case as a shield against the rain. Duck, still irked from such a loud wake-up and the man’s seeming obliviousness to certain things, decides it serves him right for not thinking to bring an umbrella during one of the wettest springs in memory. 

He shudders again, this time with a sad little noise that he seems embarrassed that Duck hears. 

Duck holds the umbrella out. The man takes it. 

“Thank you.” He says softly.

“You’re welcome. Just give it back once we’re at the hall. Ain’t soakin’ myself to the bone just because you packed wrong.”

“I did not-nevermind.” The man grumbles, staying silent even as they climb the steps to the front door. Duck knocks, unsure if anyone is even still awake. 

Vincent, looking exhausted, opens it immediately, Woodbridge on his heels. 

“This fella got lost and stumbled into my yard.”

“I did not stumble. I climbed a fence.” 

Duck tries not to glare at him, “point is, he said he was lookin for the hall.”

“I should hope he was.” Woodbridge says tartly.

“You were, uh, expectin him, sir?” Duck feels like Beacon has landed square on his chest. 

“Of course we were, Duck. This is Mr. Indrid Cold. Our guest of honor.”


	3. Apologies & Arguments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid takes a walk. Barclay makes some observations. Aubrey pines.

Duck holds perfectly still, as if that might let him disappear into the rain.

“Duck was helpful, I take it, Mr. Cold?” Woodbridge asks, continuing to watch Duck carefully. 

Mr. Cold glances at him, face implacable. Then he hands Duck the umbrella, stepping across the threshold and turning to face him. 

“Yes.” He says mildly. 

Woodbridge waits a moment, then simply says, “that will be all, Duck.”

Duck gives an awkward bow as the door slams in his face. Then he turns, tromping down the stairs towards the warmth of home. 

\-----------------------

“What in god’s name took you so long?” Woodbridge demands as soon as the door shuts, “I have had guests waiting for hours.”

“I did warn you in my letter that I might be late, given the likelihood of rain.”

“I expected a few minutes, not several hours for you to arrive covered in mud.”

“I am not sure why you expected that, as I never listed a time.” Indrid replies dryly. He’s so very tired and in spite of the grumbling grounds-keeper’s umbrella (his own had gotten misplaced on the journey), is still very cold and damp. Surely Woodbridge will let him go to bed and not continue some charade about him being a guest of honor. He is the older man’s employee, nothing more.

“Mr. Cold, I hope this does not set a precedent for your time here with us.”

“It will not.” He thinks through his futures, sees an option that will expedite the union of himself and a bed.

“Here. This contains all the notes you requested on the latest venture.”

Woodbridge smiles, just, and takes the case, “that is something at least. Vincent will show you to your room.”

Indrid tilts his head just enough to acknowledge he heard him, and follows the butler up the stairs and to the left. He sent two trunks of his belongings ahead of him, with instructions to send the remainder by the end of the month, once Woodbridge made it clear he would be working from Sylvain for the foreseeable future. 

“The washroom is to your right, and there are more blankets in that closet if you require them.”

“Thank you, ah, it’s Vincent, yes?”

“Yes, sir. Will you be needing anything else?”

“No, thank you.” He goes to the smaller trunk, hoping to find his nightclothes without much issue. 

“There is still some dinner left, if that is of interest.”

“I…” he should eat, he hasn’t since before he left on his journey. He gets so caught up in his thoughts sometimes that he doesn’t notice his hunger until it rears up and punches him in the stomach. 

“Barclay made quite a few sweets, if you are in the mood for something easy to consume.”

“That would be quite nice, thank you. If I am asleep by the time you return, please just leave them on the table.”

Once Vincent is gone, Indrid flings the trunk open, pulling clothes out haphazardly until he finds his nightshirt and robe. Yes, he knows it is considered odd to sleep in his robe, but he is freezing. 

Free of his muddy clothes and dressed in warm, familiar fabric, he climbs beneath the blankets, head falling to the pillow. The last thing he hears is a gentle clink of a plate on the bedside table, the shutting of a door. 

The next morning, he completely misses breakfast, only awakens when Vincent enters the room and suggests he might want to get up to avoid a repeat of Woodbridge’s attitude from the previous day. 

He dresses, downs the sweets from the night before, locates an umbrella, and leaves a note saying he will have more information for Woodbridge come evening. 

Then he scurries out into the gardens, where he has a far lower chance of being disturbed. 

It’s not that he dislikes the company of others; he’s simply grown accustomed to a life without it and thus finds his interactions generally whoever else is involved uncomfortable, and so he avoids them. His life is a socially awkward snake eating it’s own tail.

He wanders between the hedges, enjoying the light rain, the soothing patter of drops on the umbrella helping him sort through his thoughts. 

As he passes through the end of a hedge tunnel, he finds rows of carefully lined plants, all manner of green poking determinedly through the muddy earth. 

At the far end of the square, a sturdy-looking man is kneeling in the dirt, patting his hands down around a seedling. Indrid studies him, finds himself no longer in the futures, interested only in the movements of gloved hands across the ground, strength and gentleness in each motion. 

A pheasant calls in the distance, and the man turns towards the sound. It’s the man from the night before, Duck. His face is pleasant enough, when there is not an annoyed set to his mouth the way there was last night. 

Indrid bites the inside of his lip; he truly had not enjoyed being nearly-attacked by that dog. But the man had helped him, and had not even seemed angry so much as tired. Too, he’d clearly been alarmed last night to learn of Indrid’s status, no doubt fearing Indrid would eagerly sell out a servant. 

He should at least let him know he bears him no ill will. 

Picking his way across the rows, trying to avoid what puddles he can. He stands just behind him. And promptly gets the sense he’s being ignored, or at least studiously not looked at. 

“Hello. Ah, Duck, correct?”

“Yessir. Somethin’ I can do for you Mr.Cold.” Duck turns to look up at him, one eye brown and the other blue. 

“No. Ah, that is, I wanted to thank you for your help last night. And to let you know I bear you no ill will.”

“Mighty magnanimous of you, sir.” Duck manages a half-smile, turns back around and picks up his spade. 

“I mean it. I know how Woodbridge can be.”

“Seems like he likes you fine. Sir.”

Indrid barks a laugh and Duck turns, startled.

“He is a better actor than I knew, then. He and I seldom see eye to eye on things. My predictions he enjoys; what I choose to do with them at times, not so much. I once made him trip over a bootbrush because he was pacing so much in frustration with me.”

A strange, wheezing giggle comes from below him. 

“Now that’s a pleasin’ image.” Duck continues laughing. It’s an absurd noise. 

Indrid wants to make him do it again. 

But before he gets a chance, Duck’s face falls to a place between neutral and annoyed

“Uh, Mr.Cold? Next time you wanna apologize to me, make sure you don’t tramp an hours work in the process.”

“Wha-oh dear.” Indrid looks down and the stems crunched beneath his feet, and the patches similar to it he stepped in to avoid both the puddles and other plants.

“Apologies. I, ah, thought they were weeds.”

“Nope. Feverfew, primrose, and stingin’ nettle.” He points to each patch of damaged plants in turn.

“In my defense, stinging nettles are considered weeds.”

“Only by folks who don’t know better.” Duck stands with a sigh, “if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Cold, I need to go an’ gather some replacements for them from the greenhouse. Afternoon.” Duck tips his hat, rain running down the back of his oilskin as he stands. 

“Good afternoon.” He intends to say more but the man is already walking purposefully away from him, the roof of a greenhouse just visible in the distance. 

Indrid turns, makes his way carefully across the rows, being sure this time to avoid anything green, though he ends up with mud up his pants as a result. He hopes that is apology enough.

\--------------------------------------------------

“...Which is why I thoroughly believe that, while there are no doubt strange creatures in the woods of America, more evidence is needed to prove the existence of these so-called “Ape Men.” Stern sips his tea, finds it empty, and lifts the pot from the table, pointing with his pinky to ask if Barclay wants more as well. 

Barclay nudges his teacup forward, “I remember my mom telling stories like that. I always kinda figured it was like a, hmmm, a Bloodybones is here; you tell your kids about it so they won’t wander off into the woods by themselves.”

“My thoughts exactly. Not that I wouldn’t love to be wrong.” He sighs, leaning back to contemplate the ceiling. A lock of dark hair gets free from where he’s combed it, and Barclay’s fingers itch to brush it back. 

This has been happening more and more often, and is not helped by the fact that Stern has assured him that he’s more comfortable with Barclay dropping honorifics and titles when they talk. It makes it all too easy sitting here by the fire between meals, to imagine Stern could truly feel something other than affection or friendship for him. Perhaps the urge to preserve his heart (or at least his desires) against disappointment is why he still cannot manage to call Mr. Stern by his first name, in spite of him saying he can. He tried, got caught between the two modes of address, and promptly called him Stern.

“That works for me.” Stern had chuckled.

They talk every day now, Stern usually coming to see him early in the mornings or late in the evenings. In fact, it was Stern who he vented to a week ago when Indrid Cold failed to arrive on time. 

(Mr. Cold, to his credit, apologized when he learned what had happened. He has endeared himself somewhat over the last week and a half by eating dessert with as much gusto as Stern eats, though with fewer ill-concealed moans). 

“Have you always wanted to cook? I mean, you said you learned young, but was that what you wanted?” Stern leans forward again, stirring his tea. His eyes glint their usual inquisitive blue. Barclay often shrinks from such attention, scrutiny tied forever to trouble in his mind. But whenever Stern looks at him this way, he’s overrun with the urge to do whatever it takes to keep their gaze on him. 

“I...yeah, y’know it kinda always has been. Food is such a simple way of taking care of people, of showing them you care. But at the same time, everyone has their own tastes, and learning to cook for them helps you learn about them.”

“Oh?”

“Well take, uh, Aubrey. She loves when I make things she’s never had before. That’s half the reason I have cookery books from so many places. And she tends to prefer dishes without meat, though she likes those fine. That tells me that she’s adventurous, and has a soft spot for certain animals. Course, I knew those things already.”

“True. How about Duck, then? You haven’t known him as long.”

“Likes straightforward things, things he’d be able to cook himself and usually does. Soup, simple roasts, vegetables, cakes. Tells me he’s not fussy, and that he likes things that feel...tangible, I guess, like they’re connected to the place they came from, the soil that grew them. He doesn’t need food that makes him think; he needs stuff that nourishes him.”

Stern nods, then asks more softly, “and how about me?”

_Your respectable appearance hides some kind of deep, ravenous desire, and if I think about that too much I get distracted and accidentally burn my hand on the damn stove._

“You always eat with this, like, enthusiasm. Like you’re getting away with something. Like in other places of your maybe, uh, maybe there are things you want to do that you can’t. And you always eat the dishes in the combination I intend them to be eaten, rather than picking them apart or only having this flavor or that one. Which tells me you tend to look for order and that you like it when you find it.”

Stern smiles, impressed, “Maybe you should have been a detective instead of a cook.”

“Only if I could ask every suspect to design their perfect meal.”

“I’ve heard worse ideas.” Stern pulls out his watch, frowns, “I ought to go. I agreed to check some papers over for my father.”

Barclay slides him a scone leftover from breakfast, “for the road.”

“Thank you. I’ll need it. Is it alright if I come by tomorrow morning? Tonight we’ll be doing nothing but wedding planning with Woodbridge and my father, or I’d come and keep warm by your stove.”

“Of course. See you then.” Barclay waves once, smiling, as Stern leaves. Then he adds, so softly it’s as if he’s afraid the walls may hear and report on him, “I can’t wait.”

\---------------------------------  
She’s worried about Dani.

Her friend is usually easy-going, hard to rattle. But after over a decade of being close, she recognizes the worn look about those hazel eyes, the way she’s a little too quick to answer certain things, as if she needs to get the lie out before the truth can sneak across her lips. 

Aubrey knows that the best approach has always been to take her aside and ask, gently as she  
can, if Dani is alright. But their time alone has been scant over the last weeks, as Aubrey and Stern have had to keep up appearances as future spouses getting to know each other and Woodbridge (or Hayes) keeps shooing Dani off to talk with her “betrothed.” Aubrey initially thought it might be the forced marriage troubling her friend, and while it can’t be helping, the fact that she and Barclay have decided it will be a facade at best so each of them can live as usual seems to have put Dani’s mind at ease. 

She wishes for the millionth time that they’d figured out a different way of allowing Dani to come with her to England.

But Woodbridge had been adamant he would only take Aubrey. She was his niece and he her guardian alone. Nevermind that Dani’s mother, on account of their houses being on the same black, had also been killed in the fire that swept the street. Nevermind that she and Dani were each other’s comforts, two orphans huddling in bed together to keep the nightmares away.

Nevermind that Aubrey loved Dani more than anyone in the world. 

In a final attempt to keep them together Mama, the woman who ran the lodge one block over and who looked after the girls when their parents were off at work (and after they died), pointed out that if Aubrey was going to be a proper lady, she needed a lady’s maid, and Dani was the perfect choice. Woodbridge begrudgingly agreed.

(Mama’s tendency to clean her shotgun or whittle with a large knife while having this conversations may have helped her case). 

If Woodbridge and everyone else saw Dani the way Aubrey did, as her equal and best friend, so many things would be easier. So many things would be solved. 

“Penny for your thoughts, fireblossom.” Dani’s reflection smiles at her as she says the nickname, the blonde woman seated before Aubrey’s dressing table so Aubrey can comb and style her hair. She follows the line of the comb down to her shoulders, tries not to think about how Dani is in only her underclothes. How they both are. How nice it would be to touch her more intimately like this, warm and safe together in the comfort of her room. 

“Um, nothing.” Aubrey blushes, looks down in a hurry, “just thinking over the plan for tonight. Vincents even in on things, even if he doesn’t know it. He approves of our idea to have the ceremony in the winter or fall, since it’ll be easier to get extra staff if we need it. Said he’d tell Woodbridge so if asked.”

“That’s good. Barclay and I can time our ‘wedding’ however best to delay yours.”

“Thanks, honeysuckle.” Aubrey hopes the word sounds like the childhood name it was, with no reflection of how Dani saying “fireblossom” makes fiery affection bloom through her chest. 

There’s a tremendous bank from downstairs, followed by raised voices. 

“Why in the world was he out in the first place?” Mr. Cold’s voice. 

“Because I was walkin’ him!”

Dani and Aubrey exchange a confused look, “Duck?”

They hurry downstairs, Dani grabbing a coat to cover herself. In the main hall, Duck and Mr.Cold are both standing, panting, with their backs pressed to the door, as furious, grating barking bangs against it. Both men a spattered up and down with mud

“Why would you _walk_ him?” Mr. Cold nearly slips, his muddy shoes gliding on the tile

“Because even if he’s a pain, still my job to care for him right!”

“Might I suggest a-” there’s a bam as Beacon whacks at the door, “chain next time instead of a lead.”

“He ain’t ever broken free like that before. Maybe there’s just something about you that bothers him, _sir_.” 

“That was uncalled for.”

“Not after what happened yesterday-”

“That was accidental!”

“Are you both...okay?” Aubrey lifts and eyebrow, trying not to laugh at the pair bickering like a long-married couple. 

Mr. Cold notices her, attempts a bow, “Ah, Lady Little, apologies for our, ah, dramatic entrance.”

“Do you want me to ask Barclay for a bone or something? We could throw it out the window to distract him.” Dani offers, turning towards the kitchen as Barclay comes around the corner.

“Way ahead of you, I could hear him barking a mile away.” 

“Thanks, Barclay.” Duck takes the proffered bone, but before he can open the door Woodbridge, Hayes, and Stern come into the hall from the study. 

“Mr. Cold, I thought we agreed to meet at six sharp.”

“It is only a few minutes after, and I was running for my life so you’ll forgive me if punctuality is not on my mind.”

“Beacon ain’t gonna kill anyone. I think.”

“Mr.Cold, it is of the utmost importance that we decide on a date tonight.”

“Wait” Aubrey turns to look at her uncle, “why does he have a say? It’s my wedding.”

“Mr. Cold will be able to pick the date most advantageous to everyone’s interests.”

“Our interests should be the main ones, right?” 

“Quiet, Joseph.” Hayes tosses over his shoulder. 

“I, ah, I did not realize you had not consulted the couple.” Mr. Cold looks between Aubrey and her uncle as he steps away from the door, “I happen to agree with Lady Little that she and her betrothed should have the final say.”

“Mr. Cold, you have already been tardy. I would not press your luck.”

“Hold on,” Duck steps away from the door now as well, “sir, Beacon did get loose and chase us, I know Mr.Cold was headin your way when it happened.”

“You have an odd way of speaking to a guest of honor, Mr. Woodbridge.” Stern adds, dryly.

“Now see here Mr. Stern, you and my niece will abide by my-”

“No, we won’t.” Aubrey crosses her arms.

“Aubrey, you are in no position-”

“Yes, actually she is-”

“You do not have a say here Dani-”

“ Like hell she doesn’t!”

“Um, I’m just gonna-”

“You stay right here, Barclay, why in gods name are you running around with bloody bones in front of guests?”

“He was helpin’ us!”

“Duck, we’ve spoken about your manners-”

“His manners are actually fine.”

“Mr.Cold would you kindly _shut up_?”

Mr.Cold blinks, startled. Then everyone is talking on top of each other, trying to be heard, trying to make someone else be silent, when the front door flies open. 

The room goes still. 

The lamps throw dramatic shadows on the woman in the doorway as she takes off her hat and stomps her boots clean on the floor. 

Aubrey and Dani realize who it is at the same time, and run towards her with a cry of joy. 

Mama’s home.


	4. Reunions & Ruminations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid climbs. Duck gives a gift. Dani takes a chance.

“Get the feelin’ I arrived just in time.” Mama deadpans as she hugs both young women to her. The smell of leather and wood shavings sends Aubrey right back to her childhood, and she snuggles closer. 

“You have no idea.” Aubrey mumbles into her shoulder.

Barclay stands hesitantly nearby, but when Aubrey and Dani step back, Mama opens her arms to him too.

“Hey, big fella.”

Barclay smiles as he hugs her, rumbles out a laugh as she mutters something in his ear. When she releases him she spies Duck, who waves hello. There’s no rush to embrace this time, but Duck is smiling, leaning back against the hall table.

“Beacon went sprintin off towards the cottage soon as he saw me.”

“Thank fuck.” Duck mutters, then blanches when Mr.Cold sends an amused look his way.

“Miss. Cobb. This is rather unexpected.” Woodbridge sounds as though he’s forcing the words out one at a time. 

“Should be. Decided to surprise these three with a visit, on account of needin a change of scene.”

“Did you sell the lodge?” Barclay sounds concerned. 

“Nope. Thacker’s runnin it til I get back. And it’d been too damn long since we talked in anythin but letters. Letters with bite marks outta ‘em.” She smirks at Aubrey.

“That’s just Dr. Harris Bonker’s way of saying hello.”

“Well, I can greet the little critter later. Oughta mind my manners.” She turns to the other men, sizing them up, “Names Madeline Cobb. Most folks call me Mama. Pleasure to meet y’all.”

Indrid bows, “Indrid Cold, at your service.”

“And I’m Joseph Stern. Aubrey’s fiance. This is my father-”

“William Hayes Stern.” The man offers a slight bow, but Mama’s attention is entirely on his son.

“Aubrey’s fiance, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mama tuns back to Aubrey, “Guess your last letter must’ve gotten to the lodge after I left.” 

“Yep.” Aubrey grins, knowing full well Mama can spot the lie. 

“Well, congratulations to you both. I’ll catch up with you two later, since it seems like you were uh, in the middle of somethin.” She tilts her head to indicate Dani, still only wearing the coat over her underclothes, “In the meantime…” she turns, walks casually towards Woodbridge, Joseph, and his father, “got some questions for you. All three of you.”

Aubrey smiles to herself as she offers Dani her arm. She’s seen plenty of things over the last few weeks. But that’s the first time she’s seen both Woodbrige and the elder Stern look genuinely, thoroughly, alarmed. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

Duck’s thankful for many things; trees, french onion soup, his cat, his family back home, the fact he found a surgeon in London who fixed his chest without a second thought. But mostly, he’s grateful he wasn’t the target of whatever disapproval Mama volleyed at Woodbridge last night. 

He’s picking his way through orchard, misty rain filling the air and thankful thoughts swirling through his head, when in a tree he spots the last thing he expects to see up a tree. 

“Mr. Cold, with all due respect: what the hell are you doin’?’”

“I am” Mr. Cold grunts as he scooches further on the branch, “trying to get an accurate reading on my weather instruments.”

“Is there somethin you need to know besides ‘it’s rainin’?” Duck stares up from his spot directly beneath the other man

“I need more precise-oh dear” Is all he says before the branch snaps and sends him to the ground. This time, he manages not to coat all of his clothing with mud.

Because he lands squarely on Duck.

“Ow.”

“Agreed. I, I am sorry.” At this distance, Duck can see the brown of his eyes as his glasses slip down his nose. He looks a bit flustered, like a moth that’s hit the same window one too many times. 

“You really gotta be more careful.” Duck says, softer than he means to as he pushes the glasses back into place, “that branch was obviously rottin'.”

“I am sorry that not everyone possesses the same floralogical eye as you.” Mr. Cold huffs, sitting up. 

“Ain’t nothin’ that fancy. Look” he points at the branch laying on the ground, “see how it’s a different color than the rest?”

“...Yes.” Mr.Cold deflates, then promptly jumps up as he notices he’s still straddling Duck’s hips. 

“I ought to be going. Good afternoon.” He turns on his heel, grabs his equipment and the umbrella that was resting at the base of the tree, then freezes as his stomach utters an absurdly loud growl. 

“Skip breakfast?” Duck stands, resigned to the fact he’ll have to trudge back across the estate to change into unsoaked clothes. 

“I...I suppose I did. I can get very up in my own head at times, so much so that I lose track of things like time of day or meals.” His stomach repeats the noise and this time he winces. 

Duck decides to shoo him towards the house so he doesn’t pass out in his orchard. 

But for some reason, the words that leave his mouth are, “Got some food at my place. Nothin fancy, but it’s closer’n the hall. If you wanna follow me.” 

“Yes, please.”

“This way.” Duck starts for home, Mr.Cold falling into step beside him. Duck studies him more carefully. He’d say he looks this disheveled just from being out in the rain, except in all the time he’s been here, Duck’s never seen him look properly put together. He’s always missing one or two items a gentleman should wear (even the night they met, he was without a top hat), and his hair is getting long, yet he shows no interest in trimming it. The only constants about his appearance are the red glasses and the black clothing. 

The few times they’ve spoken without incident, he strikes Duck as intelligent, if a bit odd. Which is why his insistence on doing thickheaded things puzzles Duck.

“You want to know why I am always doing things that seem ridiculous.” Mr. Cold says matter-of-factly. 

Surprised, Duck tries to lie, “I, uh, no, uh, fuck, uh I ain’t eve been curious about uh, fuck, anythin’ but especially that. Fuck.”

Mr.Cold snickers, “That was an abysmal lie.”

“Yeah” Duck flicks rain from his oilskin, “not my strong suit.”

“The question does not bother me. I am aware of how I appear to others. But the truth is, it is all part of my work for Woodbridge. Ever since I was young, I have had a gift for predictions; statistics, odds, patterns, and so forth, I can take them all in and easily combine them in my minds eye to paint a picture of likely outcomes. I can do the same with interactions between people, to a degree. People tend to react to certain things in certain ways, but they are also very good at changing those futures I see coming.”

“Damn. Almost sounds like you can see the future.”

Mr. Cold gives him a strange look, then continues, “Nothing so, ah, magical. Woodbridge spotted my talents when I was younger; I’d been on my own, having left my family back home in hopes of finding a solution to our money woes. He hired me on as what he likes to call his “seer.” I help him with stocks, business ventures, gambling, both for himself and for his clients. The Woodbridge family’s fortune built Sylvain Hall, but I suspect my skills have helped maintain it.”

“No wonder he was callin’ you the guest of honor.”

“I am more like a golden goose. One he doesn’t like much. He does not enjoy when I am wrong, which has been known to happen, or when I make a prediction he does not want to hear, or have trouble accounting for the forces of nature. Like this weather, for instance.” He holds his hand out into the rain from beneath the umbrella, “spring has barely come, and it seems as though summer may never arrive.”

“You got that right; I learned the weather and growing season’s out here well, and this feels all wrong.”

“So I am not imagining it.”

“Don’t think so. After you.” Duck holds the gate open, gets the cottage unlocked as Beacon makes his displeasure known from his kennel.

“Mmmm, it is very warm in here.” 

“Try to make sure everythin' is draft-proof. Don’t do to waste firewood if all the hot air just whooshes out the minute the fire’s gone.” 

“Very wise. The bedroom I am in, I swear even with a fire I end up chilled.” He’s taking in the house with a wistful expression. Up until now, Duck had put him closer to Woodbridge’s age, on account of his strangely ageless features. But now he sees that hair he thought was grey is instead so blonde it’s gone white. The unusual, angular features lose their severity and replace it with something softer, more vulnerable.

Something Duck wants to touch.

He shakes that thought off like rainwater, changes his clothes, fetches bread and cheese and some of the few berries he’s managed to save from the storm. By the time he returns, Mr. Cold is staring at an illustration on the wall of a Deaths-Head Moth. 

“Where did you get this? It’s lovely.”

“Was here when I took over. Leo, the groundskeeper before me, left a lot of his knicknacks behind along with Beacon.”

“Have you tried returning him?”

“Says he comes with the job.”

“Goodness.” Mr. Cold smiles, “As awful as he is, I do think it was good of you to look after him rather than doing away with him.” 

He turns back to painting, stares at it with rapture. 

“You can have it. If, uh, if you want.”

“Really?” His smile is now a full-blown grin.

“Sure. I like it plenty, but I don’t really get much joy outta it. Not the way you seem to.”

Mr. Colds hands twitch excitedly, and then he darts forward to shake Duck’s hand, “thank you, thank you so much” before turning and plucking the drawing from the wall. 

“You a big fan of art?” Duck asks as they sit.

“Very. I, ah, well, I draw in my spare time. I don’t have much skill, but it helps me get my thoughts in order. And sometimes it is nice to make something just for the sake of making it.”

“Do you draw people or places?”

“Places, mostly-oh, hello.” Mr. Cold chirps delightedly as Winnie, Duck’s inscrutable and large tabby cat, hops onto his lap. He runs his hands along her back and Duck reaches out to scritch her head.

“If, uh, if you like drawin trees and such, I know a real nice spot. I got some trimmin to do over that way anyway, so if it ain’t rainin when you’re done, happy to show you.”

“It seemed like it was stopping. Let’s hope I’m right.”

He’s right. 

Soon, they’re standing before a small pond surrounded by willow trees. At the edge there’s a weather stone bench, and Duck sits down, producing a piece of lettuce from his pocket and tearing it into small bits, which he then scatters into the water. Several ducks and geese emerge from nearby reeds, quacking amiably at him. 

“I thought people throw bread to ducks.”

“They do, but it seems silly to me. They eat plants, so I decided to try throwin’ ‘em lettuce and they really like it. Here.” He holds out a handful and after a moment Mr. Cold takes it, chucking it towards a female duck, who gobbles it up.

He makes a high, excited exclamation, and claps his hands together.

“ _Wait_ ” he turns to Duck, “is this how you came by your name?”

“Nope. Had it since I was a kid.”

“Ah. Do you feed the other animals on the grounds?”

Duck shakes his head, “not unless you count the rabbits gettin into my vegetables.”

“There are rather a lot of them around here.”

“Aubrey don’t let anyone hunt or trap them, which is a-okay with me. Plus she lets the foxes roam, so they keep the rabbits and hares in check.”

“I do like the hares. They are so odd looking, a bit unnerving.” He tosses lettuce to a goose, who honks and paddles away. 

“Careful, sometimes you hear ‘em whisperin’ in their own language.”

An amused smile coupled with staring at Duck over the rims of his glasses, “Even I know that is not true.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” A smile cracks across his face as he elbows his companion playfully. 

“Caution, dear Duck, or I’ll push you in with your namesakes. That one in particular looks bloodthirsty. Look at the glint in his eye.” He points to a duckling. 

Duck guffaws this time, Indrid laughing along with him. 

“Alright, alright,” Duck holds up his hands, “truce?”

Mr. Cold grins, “Truce.”

\-----------------------------------------------

Aubrey stands, a bonnet in either hand, regarding her reflection. Dani said the red one looked best on her right?

They’ve gotten a rare day of sunshine, and Hayes suggested she and Stern go for a picnic. Mama, who had been let in on the true plan the night she arrived, pointed out that a young lady out in the privacy of the garden with a young man could be scandalous, so they should take Dani. And Barclay, as dinner for the night was nearly ready, and he could carry the picnic supplies so none of the genteel members of the house had to. 

The quartet was off before anyone could object. 

“Ready, fireblossom?” Dani steps into the room, green dress fitting her perfectly. Aubrey drops both bonnets on the floor. Dani giggles, grabs them and hands her the red one.

“I’m excited to get outside too.”

They walk arm in arm out to the landing, where Stern is waiting with a basket and blanket laden Barclay. Aubrey decides the ideal spot for them is near the stream on the east end of the estate. She and Dani help set out the blanket, but as Barclay is unloading the food and drinks, Dani touches her shoulder. 

“Maybe we should take a little extra walk. To, um, build up an appetite?”

“Okay!” Aubrey turns, “you two don’t mind, right?”

“Of course not.” Stern shakes his head, fingers already heading towards the sandwiches Barclay made. 

“Okaygreatsavesomeforus!” With that, she grabs Dani’s hand, and they hurry off into the trees.

\--------------------------------------------

Barclay focuses on setting out each food on it’s plate, uncorking a bottle of mineral water for Stern, and generally looking anywhere but the other man’s face. He made that mistake once on the walk over here and is still recovering. The painfully handsome angles and curves of his cheeks and chin, his smile lit up in the sun, these things mean Barclay has to focus on deep breathing so he doesn’t shove the other man up against a tree and kiss him senseless. 

He doesn’t know why fate has done this to him. One evening, he was bidding Stern goodnight, hand accidentally resting atop his on the kitchen door. It was as if someone touched a spark to the tinder of his soul, igniting the white-hot urge to beg Stern to stay, to let Barclay care for him in ways Woodbridge would decidedly disapprove of.

He won’t, of course. He can’t. Stern, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, is well above him in status. He doesn’t want Aubrey, of course, but there’s no way he could want Barclay. 

“Are you alright?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. Just thinking. Why?” 

Stern points to the piece of cheese Barclay is holding. It had been a large chunk when he picked it up, but he’s sliced it to oblivion while thinking. 

“Guess I thought too hard. May as well finish slicing it.”

“It does look good. But not as good as these.” Stern picks up one of the brioche buns Barclay made for breakfast. He bites it and then, more loudly than he usually does, moans delightedly. 

“ _Shit_.” Barclay sticks his thumb into his mouth, paring knife dropping to the blanket. 

“Is it bad?” Stern crawls right next to him. 

“I, uh, I don’t think so. Lost my concentration and my hand slipped.”

“Here, let me see” Stern takes his hand, removing his handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it against the cut, “you’re right. It should stop on it’s own.”

“Uh huh.” Barclay’s voice is tight. Stern’s never touched him this long.

“You, um, seem to be having trouble concentrating a lot today.” Stern’s gaze is no longer clinical, the hand not holding the handkerchief in place is tracing idly along Barclay’s palm, “you’re sure everything’s alright?”

Barclay doesn’t trust his tongue. Nods instead. Stern releases his hand, but stays close to him. 

“How do you know Mama? I meant to ask when she arrived last week, but I was well, um, cornered.”

“She knew me when I lived back in Virginia. Looked after me when she could, gave me chances others wouldn't.”

Stern cocks his head, “she’s who recommended you to Woodbridge, isn’t she?’

“Yep.”

“In that case I owe her a thank you. If she hadn’t done so all those years ago, you and I wouldn’t have met, and my time here would be far less pleasant.” 

“I…” the look Stern gives him is so sincere it renders him speechless.

Just as he’s finding his words Dani comes sprinting out of the trees, looking upset. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Several minutes prior, Aubrey and Dani are strolling, hand in hand, through the woods, and Dani wants to stay here forever, away from the interruptions that keep taking them away from each other. 

“They’ll be fine, right?” Aubrey looks at her, then back towards the picnic.

“Barclay’s going to do enough pining to fill a forest, but yes.”

“You still think he has a thing for Stern?”

“Absolutely. How many times have you walked in to ask Barclay something this week and found him lost in thought?”

Aubrey purses her lips in thought, an expression so adorable Dani wants to kiss her cheek, “All of them.”

“See? I guarantee he’s thinking about your ‘fiance.’”

“Oof, poor guy.” Aubrey stops, staring up at the sky, “it must, um, it must really sting to like someone who probably doesn’t like you back.”

“Yeah.” Dani sighs, following the line of Aubrey’s throat and trying not to think about kissing it the way a man with an anchor around his feet tries not to drown.

“Dani” Aubrey asks quietly, “have you ever wondered what it would be like if you were a ‘lady’ too?”

“All the time.” She tries for casual, ends up stilted. 

Aubrey looks away from the sky and straight at her, and Dani’s heart aches so badly her body yearns for something, anything, to ease the feeling. 

“What would be the first thing you’d do if you were?”

Dani pulls Aubrey to her, kisses her with all the courage she can muster. Her friend makes a muffled noise of surprise, and Dani immediately pulls away.

Aubrey is staring at her, so many emotions running across her face that Dani can’t figure out how she feels. 

Then she sees what’s either fear or confusion or shock, and that settles it; she’s fucked up.

“I, I’m so sorry Aubrey. I-” She covers her mouth and turns away, walking briskly away as tears sting her eyes.

“Dani!”

Instead of turning, she runs, dashing past a worried Barclay and Stern, Aubrey’s cries of “wait” following her all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have googled "was X around in1817 SO MANY TIMES today."


	5. Reflections & Relaxation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid draws. Aubrey argues. Barclay brings tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Royal Society is the oldest scientific society in Britain.

“So she has not come out since?” Indrid sits on the stone bench, drawing as Duck does battle with a blackberry bramble that’s gotten overly ambitious. 

The drawing is of Duck. This is because Duck has one of the most pleasing-looking bodies and charming faces Indrid has ever encountered. The curves, the fat upon muscle, the dark hair against tan skin, the mis-matched eyes, all are an artists dream. This, and this alone is the only reason he now has a stack of drawings of the gardener shoved into a drawer of the table on which the painting of the moth sits. Right beside his bed. 

“Nope. Ever since she went into Mama’s rooms, she ain’t shown her face. Least according to Barclay.”

“Oh dear.” Indrid looks down at the sketch, “that would explain why Lady Aubrey has seemed rather tense. I simply assumed Dani and I had not crossed paths. Is she ill?”

“She is now. Mama asked me to bring in some feverfew and chamomile yesterday, and Dani was in bed lookin real sick. But I get the feelin she wasn’t when she went in.”

“How do you mean?”

Duck turns to look at him, “you seen Aubrey go in to check on her?”

Indrid thinks; he’s seen Aubrey at the door of Mama’s room several times, but never coming in or out.

“No.”

“The two of them are thick as thieves. Last time Dani got sick, Aubrey hardly left her side. Same thing when Aubrey sprained her foot last summer; Dani spent damn near every moment with her, just readin' or emboriderin' or talkin'.”

“I see…you think she is more upset by the marriage arrangements than she has been letting on?”

Duck tosses a long stretch of bramble into a nearby pile.

“Look, I been a bachelor for years, so it ain’t like I’m some kind of love expert. But every time Aubrey talks about Dani, she gets this goofy smile on her face. And I once watched Dani damn near fall into a pond because Aubrey bent over to look at some flowers.”

“That would make watching her planning to marry another rather painful.”

“Yep.” Duck tosses the final bramble away, “I ain’t sayin’ I don’t get lonesome at times. But watchin’ everyone with all this weddin’ fuss and the ways it’s makin them miserable...I dunno, maybe I’m on the right track stayin' solo.”

“It could be.” Indrid murmurs, then quickly turns to a fresh page as Duck comes to sit down beside him.

“What about you? Anyone sendin' you long love letters telling you to hurry back soon?” 

Indrid snorts, “No. I work strange, erratic hours in a job few understand, my manners are odd, I keep a messy house, and I look, well, you can see how I look. I can secure the company of another gentleman for a night, maybe two, but there my romantic success ends.” 

He glances to his right, fully expecting Duck to agree, or tease him. He would not begrudge him it; he knows full well how off-putting his features are. Instead, Duck is looking him over, eyes roaming across his face and down his body, and seems puzzled.

“Not even when you were younger, back home?”

“Only a childhood sweetheart who ended our relationship when he realized I was never going to age into a more handsome face.”

Duck opens his mouth, his hand raised in a way that means he's about to argue. Then he stops, looks away and across the pond.

“Uh, where’s home for you?”

“Transylvania. I worked hard to shed my accent.”

Duck gives him a funny look.

“That, ah, that is usually the first thing people comment on when I tell them.”

“Huh. That, uh, that’s far.”

“About as far as Virginia, wouldn’t you say?”

Duck chuckles, “True. You miss it?”

Indrid draws long, curving shapes as he composes his answer, “In a way. I love my home, my family, but I love the rest of the world as well. There is so much to do, so many wonderful things. I meant to travel more, but once Woodbridge hired me my radius became limited. And things remain hard back home; I cannot sacrifice the wellbeing of my family for my own curiosity and wanderlust. All the same, I sometimes wonder what it would be like to use my talents for another purpose.” He looks down, realizes he’s once again been sketching Duck’s face. Luckily, the gardener has not noticed. 

“What about you?”

“Kinda the same, really. I got family back in the states, but not a lotta desire to go back. I...I was under a lot of pressure to follow a certain path. I didn’t want to. So I left to make the kind of life I wanted.”

“That sounds lonely. Brave, but lonely.”

Maybe they could be lonely together, in this land that is at once home and not.

Thunder rumbles overhead and Indrid mutters, “Blast, I barely got any drawing done.”

“And I got another batch of trees to prune. But this is a lightning storm if I've ever seen one, so I’m gonna stay, uh, outta striking range for awhile.”

“Wise.” Indrid stands, opening his umbrella as the rain starts and tucking his drawing pad beneath his arm. As he’s staring glumly towards the house, Duck clears his throat. 

“Uh I, uh, I’m gonna go work in the greenhouse for awhile. Ain’t the most scenic place, but still got things to draw. If you wanna join me, I wouldn’t mind at all.” 

“I can think of nothing I’d like better.” Indrid steps forward hesitantly, offers his arm. Duck looks at it, eyebrow raised, then ever-so-carefully loops his own arm through it. Indrid guides him close, to keep them both under the umbrella of course, and follows his lead, the greenhouse a glinting, rain-drop coated haven ahead of them. 

\-------------------------------------

“Aubrey, this is unacceptable.”

Aubrey places a hand to her chest in mock shock, “ _Really_? I hadn’t noticed. My best friend has just been, um, _hiding from me_.”

“She is doing more than that” Woodbridge folds his hands on his desk, “she is neglecting her duties.”

“She’s sick!”

“Is she ill or hiding? Make up your mind, niece.”

“She can be both.” Aubrey is ready to tear her hair out. She needs this to be Woodbridges fault, and in many ways it is. He’s who set up the weddings, who seems bent on forcing the two of them apart. 

But the worst part is, she’s pretty sure Dani’s hiding because of her. Because of the kiss. Because in spite of loving her more than she has words for, Aubrey has fucked up badly enough to make Dani think she doesn’t.

Every time she goes to Mama’s room, the older woman looks at her gently but firmly and says, “I’m sorry, Aubrey. She ain’t feelin’ well, and she don’t wanna see anyone right now.”

Barclay did confirm that Dani is actually sick, but that doesn’t make Aubrey feel any better. The woman she loves is unhappy, and she doesn’t want Aubrey there to comfort her. 

But she can’t tell Woodbridge that. It will ruin their plan, could cause him to send Aubrey away. Or worse, Dani. 

She leans forward across the desk, “Do not even think about trying to dismiss her for this. She’s sick. She’ll get better.”

With that, she storms out of the room, and collides with Stern.

“I’m sorry, Aubrey.”

“It’s fine.”

“I mean about Dani. I know how close you two are, and not being able to see her-”

“If you’re really sorry, you’d stand up to your father and _get out_.” 

She tromps up the stairs, leaving a stunned Stern behind her. When she gets to her room, she turns out all the lights, gathers Dr. Harris Bonkers onto the bed, and curls up, sniffling, until she falls asleep. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

Stern watches Aubrey go. He’s stung, but he understands. Sylvain Hall is better with a companion. Such as the man he’s off to see now.

He’s halfway to the kitchen when his father steps out of a drawing room, directly blocking his path. 

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“Too the kitchen, thought I’d ask Barclay for some tea.” Lying to his father is as easy as breathing. 

“You can ring Vincent for such things. And I doubt you drink so much tea that it necessitates a visit or more to the kitchen per day.”

“I find the atmosphere conducive to thought.”

The frown suggests his father doesn’t believe him. 

“I overheard what transpired with Lady Aubrey just now.” His father steps closer, and in spite of being taller than the older man Joseph feels as if he’s looming over him, “you would do well to remember that this is your last chance to do anything worthwhile, for yourself . And to spend more time gaining the favor of your future wife than in the company of a cook.”

The way he spits out the last word sends Joseph’s hackles up, but to defend Barclay would be disastrous.

“I have done plenty worthwhile. Need I remind you of my commendation from the Royal Society-”

“Such things…” his father’s gaze goes deathly severe, “will not keep the sharks at bay. Do you understand my meaning?”

“They’re asking for more?”

The older man nods, rests his hand on Josephs shoulder, “for your mother’s sake, if not mine, please: remember your station. Remember the plan.”

Joseph meets his eyes, gone grey in the shadows, “Alright. I will. For her.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Barclay is not having a good week. First Dani, upset and then ill, refusing any company but Mama and a few visits from him when he offers soup and messages from Aubrey.

Then yesterday, when he crossed paths with Stern, the other man had been cold to him, though he sensed a skittishness beneath the icy veneer. 

More worrying was a visit from the elder Stern that evening.

_“Woodbridge tells me Mrs. Cobb recommended you to him.”_

_“That’s right, sir.” Barclay smiles politely from his position by the stove._

_“And that you took her last name as a sign of respect.”_

_“Yes, sir. She, well, she was as good as a mother to me in a lot of ways. Seemed like the least I can do.”_

_“Charming. Most men change their names because they have something to hide.”_

_“Doesn’t everyone, sir?” Barclay aims for a joking tone as fear creeps up his fingers._

_“Of course” Hayes replies breezily, “but some of us can afford to have those hidden things brought to light. Others cannot.” His gaze jams nails through Barclay’s feet, but he schools himself to remain calm._

_“I suggest you stop spending so much time with my son.”_

_“Of, uh, of course, sir. I was just trying to be hospitable.”_

_“Hospitable is acceptable. Anything beyond that and, well, I advise you to tread carefully.”_

Which is why this morning, when Stern was short and cold with him once again when he passed him before breakfast, he didn’t ask why. Didn’t usher him into the kitchen to let him pour out his troubles. He simply bowed and said, “yes, sir.” Any passing interaction they've had since has gone the same way.

He’s been without Stern’s friendliness for a day, and he feels like he’s suffocating. It’s not helped by the events of the week, his shoulders, neck, and back are in knots that would make sailors proud. 

Which is why, now that the house has gone to bed, he’s standing outside Stern’s room with a tea tray. Tea is hospitable. 

He knocks twice, gets a tired, “who is it?”

“Barclay, sir.”

“Come in.” 

Upon entering the room he finds Stern seated in a chair near the window, a small desk off to one side of him stacked with papers and books. He’s down to his waistcoat, shirt, and trousers, and his shoes are off. When he glances up his hair is rumpled and his eyes are exhausted. 

“I, uh, thought you may still be awake. I know you said you keep long hours researching, and, uh, it seemed like some tea might be in order with it being so cold, sir.”

“That was very kind, thank you. Set it there.” He points to a clear spot on the table and goes back to his reading. 

Barclay puts the tray down, pours the tea into a cup and prepares it the way Stern likes. Sets it closer to him and doesn’t get a word in response.

“Will you be needing anything else, sir?” 

“No. You’re dismissed.” 

Barclay bows, turns towards the door and walks away. But just as he grows out of reach, fingers grab his fingertips. 

“Wait. Please.”

When he turns back Stern is looking up at him sadly. 

“I...you deserve to know what’s going on. You’ve been so good to me, it’s the least I can do. My father is upset, he fears I’m neglecting Aubrey and putting the union in jeopardy. Which is, well, you know all the reasons why that’s silly. But all the same, he forbade me from spending so much time with you. I thought it would be easier if you thought I’d suddenly become an ass and lost my manners.” Both of his hands encircle Barclays, “And for both our sakes we may have to keep up a facade of appropriate distance but I, I can’t stand the idea of you thinking I’m angry with you. Or that I don’t still long for your company.”

“Gotta say I’m relieved. Even though I got some, uh, advice to be cautious about being too friendly with you too. Maybe this can be our new way of meeting. Me coming here with tea.”

Stern grins, “Clever, given my father goes to bed very early. Lord, what a mess this all is.” He releases Barclay’s hand, runs his fingers through his hair with agitation. 

“No kidding. At least I don’t have to call you sir in private anymore. Just in public. I know it makes you feel weird.”

Stern shifts his shoulders awkwardly, “It’s odd, when you do it, even in private, it feels very different. I like the way the words sound in your mouth.” 

Barclay chuckles, gives a mock bow, “In that case, sir, would there be anything else you need, sir, from me tonight, sir?”

Stern laughs along with him, shaking his head and chasing the last of the tension from the room, “No. Really, this is one of the places I’m most content. I have a warm fire, tea, the sound of rain on the windows as I read a good book. All that’s missing is an old cat in my lap to pet as I read.”

“I could be a lapdog, if that would do.” Barclay offers, realizing too late that he’s serious. 

All the tension rushes back. Stern looks at him, inquisitive and calculating.

“Is that a genuine offer?”

“It’s, uh, it’s hospitable, right? To give a guest something he wants?” He’s on shaky ground.

“That’s not what I asked, though we could pretend it is such for the sake of an alibi. What I meant was: is that something you’d actually wish to do?”

“Yes.” 

_I’ve never wished for anything more_ he thinks as the ground crumbles beneath him.

“In that case” Stern’s kind smile stays even as his tone goes dominant, “on your knees.” 

Barclay falls to the spot on the rug that Stern points to. Stern uncrosses his legs, making it easy for Barclay to rest his head on this thigh. His knees bump into Sterns heel, and without thinking he wraps his arms around his leg.

“Hands in your lap.” Sterns voice is soft, but no less commanding. Barclay rests his hands in his lap, shutting his eyes in hopes of bringing his shaky breath under control. 

A hand rests atop his head, and Stern slowly pets his hair, trailing all the way down before starting over. The rhythm is steady, and Barclay wants to give over to it, wants permission from something, anything, to release himself entirely into Stern’s care. 

“It’s alright, Barclay, you can relax, you’re doing so well.”

He whimpers with want.

“Shhhhhhh” Sterns nails find the base of his neck, scratching it gently and sending chills of pleasure racing across his skin, “it’s alright. Now let me read in peace.” There’s no cruelty in the words, and Barclay never knew a command could sound so loving.

As Stern continues stroking and scratching, Barclay melts more and more against him. But still the knots remain. Then a thumb finds one in his shoulder, pressing and rubbing the pain loose. 

“My poor Barclay. You do so much. There, is that better?”

“Uh huh” he mumbles as Stern rubs another knot away.

“Good.” The hand returns to petting his hair, though every so often it skates down to rub another knot free. Soon, Barclay’s mind is free of the worries of the week, filled only with the crackle of the fire and the spatter of rain on the windowpane, the feeling of Sterns fingers on his skin. He wants nothing in life other than to stay here, in his care, at his service. 

“Barclay?”

“Nnn?” He opens his eyes. More than an hour has passed.

“We both should get to bed. Here, can you sit up?”

He does, with some difficulty at first. His lids are heavy, his beard mussed on one side from where he was rubbing his cheek against Stern’s leg. There’s a ceramic clinking and then Stern is holding a teacup to his lips, other hand bracing the back of his head as he drinks. It’s warm and bitter, brings him back to himself. 

“That, that was...that felt so fucking good.” 

Stern laughs, strokes Barclay's beard back down to order, “oh good. I, um, enjoyed that immensely.”

“That mean we can do it again?” He hears the shy hope in his own voice as Stern helps him up. 

“I’d like that.” 

When they reach the door, Stern takes his hand, and kisses it. 

“Goodnight, Barclay.”

Barclay squeezes his hand, “Goodnight. Joseph.”


	6. Storms & Stays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid gets soaked. Barclay lays down. Aubrey sneaks.

It’s as if every storm is worse than the last.

Duck shutters the windows tight, stokes the fire, checks and double checks that the cracks for wet and cold to seep through are few. He’d planned to sit in his little patch of private garden and read, but instead he settles up by the fire. 

He tries to focus on the words, but he’s antsy; Woodbridge is angry at the state of the gardens (in spite of Duck pointing out this weather is unprecedented), Aubrey is still noticeably upset, and he nearly pulled his shoulder helping Barclay today. 

He’ll just have to take the edge off. 

In the far corner of the room is his bookshelf, and on said shelf are several books whose spines and covers are blank. He grabs one, sits back down, undoes his suspenders and unbuttons his pants. It’s easy to find the page he wants; he's opened to it so many times the book's nearly splitting at the spot. 

The tale itself is simple; an obscene re-telling of the Knights of the Round table (complete with illustrations), the author taking massive liberties in plot and pairing. Duck’s favorite chapters involve Lancelot and Mordred, the otherwordly and bewitching sorcerer. Lancelot is tasked with capturing Mordred, but in the course of the quest ceases to be his enemy and becomes his lover. 

While he enjoys them, Duck’s not reading for the sappier parts tonight; he wants the scene in which the tension between the men boils over into a brutal, passionate amount of fucking on the rough ground of a cave. 

He’s only just begun when a knock on the door makes him pause. Maybe if he’s quiet, the person will assume he went to bed and left the lights on as an accident.

_Knock knock_

“Damn it” he grumbles, getting his pants in order on the way to the door. When he opens it, Indrid is standing, hair plastered to his face, looking like someone dunked him in a pond.

“I m-miscalculated again.” 

“No fuckin’ kiddin’.” Duck waves him inside, shutting and locking the door as Indrid stands by the fire, shivering.

“I th-thought the st-torm would come l-later. Didn’t even h-have my umb-brella.”

“C’mon, you gotta get outta those clothes. Catch your damn death otherwise.”

“N-no n-need. I will b-be fine. Just n-need a moment to warm up.”

“Like hell you do. At least gimme your coat.” 

Indrid complies, unbuttons it clumsily and hands the garment to Duck. It must be two pounds heavier from the water it took on. 

“I got a spare oilskin. You can wear that back to the house.”

“Thank you.” Indrid’s teeth are no longer chattering, but he’s still visibly shaking. 

“Boots off too. No good warmin’ the rest of you if your feet are covered in freezin’ water.”

Indrid sits down in the rocking chair, boots squelching as he yanks them off.

“What were you doin’ out there anyway?” Duck takes the boots and socks, sets them by his own and searches for a spot to hang the jacket. 

“Seeing where some of the food crops you’ve planted are in their growth process. Woodbridge wants advice on some agricultural prices, but the weather is making things unusually hard to predict.” Soft footsteps along the floor as Indrid walks near the fire. Duck makes a noise of assent, searches for his extra boots in the closet, hoping they'll fit Indrid’s feet. 

“Oh! Oh gracious.”

As he turns he’s just in time to see Indrid toss the nameless book back onto the couch. His instinct is to be ashamed, but Indrid seems surprised rather than repulsed. Not to mention Duck still finds it easy to tease him, especially when he’s already flustered, and doing so tends to jolt the other man from feeling down.

“What’s the matter, never seen a dirty book before?”

“I have.” Indrid replies, indignant, “I just was not expecting...that” he flutters his hand at the book, “when I picked it up.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“I, I do not pursue my base desires that frequently. I suppress them out of necessity.”

“Don’t think you’re gonna distract me by talkin’ about sex. You’re still wearin’ clothes that are soaked through. I can loan you more of mine, though findin a fit might be tricky, but you ain’t just gonna go wanderin around the wet ones. Can even let you change in my room to preserve your modesty.”

“I am _fine_.”

“Indrid, I can see you shiverin’. Just take the damn clothes off!” 

“I will do no such thing.”

“Why?”

“Because, because...because I am committed to my error and do not wish to back down now.” Indrid’s expression flickers between stubborn and sheepish as he crosses his arms. 

“Oh for fucks sake.” Duck strides across the room, grabbing the front of Indrid’s waistcoat, “Indrid, I know you got a stubborn streak -”

“No, I do not.”

“Jesus” Duck giggles, “at least get this off, it’s drippin’ on the floor.”

Indrid, now giggling as well, tries to pry his hands from his clothing,“Unhand me you, you, _ruffian_.” 

Duck wheezes with laughter, doubling forward to rest his head on Indrid’s shoulder, “Ruffian?”

“Yes! You are being uncouth and rough, ergo, ruffian.” Indrid grabs his arm, as if to push him away, then freezes. The grab turns to a caress, nudging Duck closer until his legs bump Indrid’s own.

“This ain’t even on the same continent as rough.” Duck growls, though the laugh still chases it, gripping the fabric tighter. 

“A likely story.” Indrid is staring him down, cheeks turning pinker by the second, “as if a ruffian would have any gauge of what I, a gentleman, thinks is rough.” He turns up his nose exaggeratedly, a playful grin creeping across his face. 

Duck chuckles, shakes his head, “Indrid, this ain’t rough. This is.” He shoves Indrid backwards, and the taller man tumbles onto the couch with a yelp. 

He’s on him instantly, pinning his hands above his head, sending the vest over the couch a moment later and yanking Indrid up in order to remove the soaking shirt. Before he can push him down again, wiry arms encircle him and Indrid is mouthing at his neck. Duck grips his hips first, then slides his hands down to cup his ass. 

“Duck, Duck please.”

“Well, well” Duck rolls his hips, finding Indrid’s cock already half-hard, “someone ain’t doin’ a good job suppressin’ his base desires.”

“I don’t, don’t want to. Goodness, Duck.” He jerks up, little whimpers clambering from his throat, “isn’t that obvious?”

“Dunno” Duck grinds down harder and Indrid gasps, “seems like you just wanna be difficult when I’m just tryin’ to keep you from catchin’ a damn cold.”

“I now see the error of my ways--noo, come back.” Indrid makes a pitiful grab for him as he slides down to the floor. 

“Don’t worry, darlin’, just finishin’ the job.” He tugs at Indrid’s trousers, the taller man shifting his hips awkwardly up to help get them off. When he’s done, he’s left with Indrid, bare and lean and blushing up and down his torso, so tantalizing he wants to take in every last inch of him.

But there are a few inches he’d like to start with. 

“You ever done this before?”

“Define this.” Indrid sits up, spreading his legs wider so Duck can stay easily between them.

He leans down, drags his tongue along the underside of his cock.

“Oh!ohhhh.” Indrid wiggles as he swirls his tongue around the head, “no, no I, I have given but never received.”

“Now that’s a damn shame.” Duck repeats the motion, then kisses back down the shaft and along Indrid’s belly, nipping and then nuzzling just below his belly button. 

“If, if OH” Indrid cries out, threads his fingers into Duck’s hair as the gardener sucks at the head “If all are as good as you are, it is indeed a shame I waited.”

“You think this is good? I’m just gettin’ started.” Duck tongues along the slit as his right hand works the base with steady, strong strokes. 

“I am trying to compliment youOOO, never mind, do what you--goodness that feels nice--wish, I am in your hands.” Indrid slumps back, panting, as Duck takes him halfway down. 

“In my mouth too.” Duck murmurs as he pulls off. 

Indrid snickers, whacks blindly and playfully at him with his hand, “that was terrible. Never change.”

“Not plannin to.” Duck kisses his thigh, swallows him as far as he can, keeps his hand at it’s same rhythmic pace as he licks and sucks, relishing the sounds Indrid makes when he does something clever. 

His previous partners often bucked when he did this, which was flattering but hard on his mouth. Indrid twitches instead, up and down, side to side, fingers flexing and toes curling as Duck focuses his attention on the head, spit making it easy to speed up his hand as he laps at it over and over again.

“D-uhnnn, sweet, sweet one, now may be the time to pull away.” Indrid tugs at his hand and Duck pulls back before diving forward to suck a line of bruises up his stomach. The man beneath him yells, thrusts into his hands once, twice, three times and cums, sticky and warm down his fingers, a version of Duck’s name with more syllables than normal leaving his mouth. 

The way they’re splayed out, half on the couch and half off, lets Duck wrap his arms around Indrid’s middle. He holds him tight, kisses his stomach and chest lightly until he relaxes.

“Would you be so kind as to join me up here?” Indrid whispers. 

Duck crawls onto the cushions, Indrid rolling onto his side to allow them both to fit. As soon as he’s settled on his back, the other man nestles his head beneath Duck’s chin. 

“May I reciprocate?”

“Uh, if, uh, you want. It, uh, may be a little different than you’re used to.” He finds Indrid’s hand, resting on his chest, and takes it.

A comforting squeeze, “I thought that might be the case, after what you told me about your time in London. I, ah, do not have experience with that exact configuration, but I would very much like to try my hand. As it were.”

Duck kisses the top of his head, “Be my guest, darlin.”

Indrid lifts their joined hands, kisses his knuckles then carefully undoes his pants, shifting them so he can slip his hand beneath Duck’s underwear.

Duck takes his wrist, “Here, like this, yeah.” He gasps, tilts his hips up into the touch, giggles, “christ your fingers are still cold.”

“You made a valiant effort to warm me, my sweet. Ah, there?”

“Yeah, yeah” he presses Indrid’s hand down, grinding on his palm as slender fingers tease his entrance.

“Oh this is _extremely_ gratifying.”

“Glad, glad you like it, fuck, fuck darlin’, keep doin that.”

“As you wish. I wonder…”

“AHnnnnnfuck, fuck yes.” Duck works his hips frantically as Indrid slides his fingers inside, curling and pressing experimentally. 

“Such a sight, my sweet Duck, goodness.” Indrid kisses his neck, hips rutting against Duck’s thigh, and Duck loses himself in the touch, Indrid’ voice in his ear telling him how long he’s wanted this. Indrid is a fast learner, but it’s the feeling of this ethereal, odd, utterly appealing man naked and wanting against, wanting only to make him cum, that does it.

“Fuck, fuck , Indrid, little more, yeah, yes _yes_.” He arches, cumming with a groan. Indrid pulls his hand away, peppering Duck’s face and neck with kisses all the while. 

The fire crackles, a cozy counterpoint to the rain hammering the windows. Indrid remains curled around him, the edge of his glasses digging into Ducks collarbone.

“You, uh, you wanna move somewhere a little more comfortable”

Indrid sits up, blinking in surprise, “You do not wish for me to go?”

“Can if you want, offer to lend you some clothes stands.” He sits up, rubbing his hands reassuringly along Indrid’s arms, “but I’d be real pleased if you stayed.”

Indrid smiles ruefully, “That is not the typical pattern of these, ah, interactions for me.”

Duck rests their foreheads together, fingers tracing each inch of skin they can find, as if searching for the pattern that could undo all the pain in that statement.

“Don’t know if you noticed, but you and I ain’t been real typical in how we get along.”

A fluttery laugh, lighting Duck’s spine up a comet, “no, I suppose we haven’t. I would like to stay. Please.”

They hurry upstairs, hand in hand. Indrid finds a nightshirt that fits him as Duck adds a blanket to the bed. When Indrid slides beneath the covers, Duck rolls onto his side so his back is pressed to that bony, narrow chest. The day has left their minds and bodies tired, but the sex has made their hearts giddy. And so they talk, about childhoods and misadventures and dreams, their fingers intertwined and resting on Duck’s chest, Indrid’s breath bursting warm on his skin in puffs of laughter, long into the night.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

“What an abysmal evening.” Joseph looks up as a gust of wind drives hard rain onto the windows, “At least we’re in here, warm and cozy.”

“Mmmmhm.” Barclay sighs as deft fingers return to his hair. It’s been a week, and without fail each night he arrives in this room with the tea-tray, and each night Stern points to the floor at his feet. 

Some nights, they talk much as they do in the kitchen (which Joseph has managed to sneak into to join him in the early hours of the morning). Others, like tonight, he falls silent almost immediately, and Stern will speak only to muse about what he’s reading or comment on the weather. But always he keeps his hand on Barclay, stroking his hair, petting his neck and back, even teasing along the side of his face. If Barclay has had a hard day, Joseph’s efforts are more concerted; he rubs deliberately at the knots in his muscles, speaks gently of how good Barclay is, how well he’s behaving. It’s only when he’s utterly relaxed that Joseph's demeanor returns to that of fond--yet slightly detached--ownership.

Barclay shifts to keep his foot from falling asleep and winces. He wrenched his back this morning and the kneeling, bending position is not kind to it.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, sir.” The muscle twinges again and he forces himself to stay still.

“Barclay, what was one of my instructions to you?”

“To...to tell you if something hurt, sir.” He looks up, finds Stern arching one dark eyebrow.

“And?”

“I, um, we were unloading supplies from town today and I picked up a barrel wrong, sir. My back hurts more in this position. But-” he straightens, hands on Joseph’s knees, “please, I want to stay.” Being yanked from this headspace, pushed away from Stern's warmth, frightens him. It normally wouldn't, but he feels exposed, at the other man's mercy. 

Joseph strokes his hair, “Stay here a moment.” He stands, carrying his tea and book over to the bed. Barclay watches him arranging the pillows, setting things out on the bedside table, and then climbing onto the mattress. 

“Come here.”

Joseph waits for him to reach the edge of the bed, then adds, “remove your shoes.”

It’s an awkward series of bends and tugs to get them off, but he manages, sets them tidily against the wall. 

“On the bed. Arrange yourself so your head is where it should be and the rest of you is comfortable.”

Gingerly, Barclay climbs onto the bed, feeling as if every wrinkle he creates on the linens is a sign he doesn’t belong here. 

Joseph watches patiently as he weighs his options. Finally, he lays down on his left side, facing the fire, his cheek resting on the other man’s thigh. It’s immensely better and he sighs happily, suddenly certain that this is where he belongs. 

“Barclay, hands.” Joseph scolds softly.

“Oops. Sorry, sir.” He stops aimlessly petting Joseph’s leg and settles his hands against his own chest. 

A light tug on the short hairs of his neck is all the punishment he gets before the other man returns to his book. After a moment, there’s a rustle of paper.

“Open your mouth.” 

He obeys instantly. His reward is sweet and rich on his tongue.

“Holy shit. Where’d you get honeycomb?”

“On the trip into town with Janelle, Mama, and Aubrey today. I recall you saying you liked it.”

“I do. Thank you, sir.”

A hand ruffles his hair, “you’re welcome. The whole bag is yours, provided I’m the one who feeds it to you.”

“Yes” it rushes out of him, more a sound than a word, and as he nestles closer he tacks on, “sir.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and he can feel the ripple of tension move up Joseph’s body as he gets himself under control. 

“Good.” A deep breath, held for a count of five and then let go, “very good.”

Joseph lifts his book, proceeds to feed and caress Barclay until the fire is down to embers, but shows no signs of sending the cook out. His lids grow heavier, and without meaning to he syncs his breaths in time to Joseph’s, calm and even.

He wakes up when the clock strikes two. Joseph is asleep, still half sitting up against the headboard, book having fallen from his hand onto the floor. He aches to pull him down and against him, to shut his eyes and pretend he did not notice their predicament until dawn.

Haye’s warning creeps from the shadows to hang over his head.

As quietly as he can, he rises from the bed and retrieves his shoes, slipping out the door, down the stairs, and into his own quarters. 

But before any of that, he drapes a blanket across Joseph’s long frame, sets his book on the table, and blows him a kiss goodnight.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The storm outside is horribley loud.

Good. That gives Aubrey half a chance of not being heard as she sneaks into Mama’s room. She’s just going to deliver this letter and disappear.

Barefoot and with the letter clutched to her chest, she sneaks through the door, waiting for gusts of wind or rumbles of thunder to mask her path past Mama’s bed, as the woman is the lightest sleeper on earth. 

But when she gets to the adjoining room where Dani has been staying, her friend is awake, staring out the window. In the dark, her golden hair nearly glows, and her nightdress hangs off her shoulders more loosely than normal.

“Um, Dani?”

“Ohmygod!” Dani starts, hand over her heart, then giggles, “you scared me.”

“Sorry. I was trying to be sneaky. It kinda worked. Or, um, at least Mama didn’t wake up.”

“That is impressive.”

Aubrey takes a few steps forward, “I, um, I came to leave this. It’s for you.” She inches close enough than Dani can lean out and pluck the folded paper from her hand. She stares at it, turning it over in her hands.

“Maybe you could just..tell me?”

Aubrey was afraid she’d say that. But she looks so lonely, as if part of her is missing. 

She takes a deep breath, “Yeah. Okay, yeah, um, here it goes. Ahem” she fidgets the sleeves of her dress with her fingers, “Dani I, I wanted to apologize for whatever it is I did that made you hide from me. I know you did actually get sick but I also know before that you were hiding from me and I don’t know why. I just...all I know is that whenever I think about my place in the world, you’re always right there beside me. You’re who I want to kiss goodnight and who I want to wake up next to and I think I’m like, in love with you? And even if you don’t feel that way please, please say we can stay friends because if I lose you I may crawl into bed and never come out.” She sniffs, clumsily wipes her eyes.

Dani steps across the carpet, letting the letter fall as she takes her hands.

“Oh, Aubrey. I love you too.”

Relief pumps through her heart even as she asks, “then why did you run?”

“I panicked. I, you didn’t react right away-”

“I was kinda processing everything.”

“-and I was afraid I’d misread you and that I’d just ruined everything. The I was afraid that I hadn’t but that by running off I’d hurt you, and then I remembered what could happen if Woodbridge found out and I got even more worried, and, well, and then I was feverish for a week and it all gets kind of blurry. I’m sorry, fireblossom. I love you, I’ve loved you for years, before I think I could even name it as what I was feeling.”

Aubrey grins, “I love you too, honeysuckle.”

Dani surges forward Aubrey wobbling to keep them upright as they kiss. The kiss is everything at once, every dream she’s ever had, every hope, every food she’s ever delighted in the taste of and every happy moment she’s ever laughed at. Dani’s lips drink in every inch of her own and she’s woozy with it, parts her lips just so she can taste her tongue, shivers when Dani moans in her arms. 

It’s only through some last minute maneuvering that they collapse onto the divan and not into the mantle.

“Aubrey, I, I want-”

“Anything, whatever it is I’ll do.” She kisses her again, hooking their ankles together. 

“I want to be with you. But, um, I’m still exhausted. My fever only broke two days ago and I feel like I’m made of paper. Sleepy paper.”

“Oh, my poor honeysuckle.” Aubrey presses their noses together, “let’s get to bed then.”

They scramble under the covers, giggling and kissing, coming to rest face to face.

“Rest up, we have things to do when you’re well.” Aubrey bounces her eyebrows, making Dani giggle. 

“I can’t wait. I just hope it doesn’t, well, you know.”

Aubrey sighs, wrapping Dani in her arms and pulling her close, “I know. We have _got_ to find that will.”


	7. Pleasure and Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern cleans. Aubrey plots. Duck picks some flowers.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Barclay.”

“Thank you, sir.” Barclay sighs when smooth fingers knead the base of his neck. He’s brought the leftover honeycakes from dinner along with the tea, plus some of the sweets he prepared ahead of time for breakfast. He’s in a celebratory mood, given that Dani and Aubrey are speaking again and, given how they looked when they came down to breakfast two days ago, may have finally admitted that they’re more in love with each other than two lovebirds in a rosebush at a spring wedding. 

Joseph lifts something from the tray and a moment later lets out an emphatic “mmmm” of pleasure. Barclay’s suddenly relieved he can’t see his face from this angle; if he had to watch the way the other man looks when he eats something he likes, he’d need to put a pillow in his lap to hide the resulting situation. 

He’s fine until Joseph starts in on the second dessert, moaning after the first bite. The sounds continue, sighs and moans so obscene that Barclay’s cock stirs and, even as he tries to will it to calm down, tents his trousers with embarrassing obviousness. 

“Lord, Barclay, that’s good.” Joseph sounds utterly satisfied as he strokes his hair, and Barclay presses his hands down, hoping he can’t hear the whimper he lets out. 

When Joseph falls silent after, he thinks his torment might be over. 

Then he gets the distinct feeling of blue eyes staring down at him. 

“That looks uncomfortable.” Joseph says mildly, still running his fingers through his hair. 

“Uh huh.” Barclay is burning up with shame. He didn’t mean for this to happen, it can’t be what Joseph wants, he’s going to make him uncomfortable. 

“You can, uh, take care of it if you like.”

“You, is, is that really alright, sir?” Barclay looks up, finds Joseph trying to keep a straight face. But his eyes give him away, lit up with desire and affection. 

“I wouldn’t have given permission if it wasn’t. You know that. Now” Joseph cups his chin, uses it to guide his head back down, “eyes front. I want to read and I can’t focus under that charming gaze.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” Joseph runs his hand along his back as Barclay unbuttons his pants. 

He slips his hand down, wraps his fingers the base of his cock and drags them up the shaft hurriedly. The urge to cum is unbearable, has been since Joseph started moaning, and so he jerks his hand rough and fast, teasing his thumb over the head, pre-cum slicking his cock as a result. 

“Barclay, slow down. You’re jostling me.” The reminder is firm yet fond. 

“S-sorry, sir.” His hand slows as he forces himself to make measured, firm movements. Heat soaks into him at how Joseph can sit there, calm and cool, while he becomes a debauched mess at his feet. Yet any worry that he’s making a fool of himself is soothed by the steady hand in his hair, the intermittent, gentle words of praise. Joseph wants him to feel good, he’s so good to him, and Barclay wants nothing more than to reciprocate, to let him do whatever he wishes to, give him anything he desires. He would stay at his feet forever. He knows Joseph would never ask him to. That makes him want to stay all the more. 

Shutting his eyes, he imagines Joseph beneath him, imagines being buried in that perfect ass, kissing lines along his body.

He moans, bucks his hips, cock pumping in and out of his fist. 

Or maybe he could have Joseph another way, face-down on the table, those maddening, electrifying moans pouring out of him as Barclay fucks him so hard he weeps with pleasure.

“Barclay, you’re moaning.” Amusement in his voice. 

“I, I can’t help it sir, I, it feels so good.”

“I’m glad” fingers caress his cheek, “all the same, I can’t read with that level of noise.”

“Mmphn” Barclay almost bites his tongue suppressing the next moan.

“Would you like help?”

“Yes, yes please _mmmpm_ ” Joseph’s hand slides down and clamps over his mouth. The resulting moan is full-throated and low, his hips thrusting wildly. The muffled sound makes Joseph laugh, bending to kiss Barclay’s head before pressing his hand down firmer. 

Barclay practically howls, bare heels digging into the rug as his back arches and the side of his face presses so hard against Joseph's leg he’s afraid it’ll bruise. When he cums his whole body pulls taut, and as spend runs down his fingers he finds he’s been lapping and nipping at Joseph’s palm. 

“Good boy” the man in the chair releases him and he collapses in on himself, panting. A _swf_ of cloth and a handkerchief enters his vision. 

“Clean yourself up. Then rest your chin on my leg.”

Quickly wiping himself off and tucking his cock back into his clothes, he pivots awkwardly on the floor and finds the most incredible sight; Joseph, flushed and hungry, gazing down at him with affectionate lust while his cock tries to rip out of his pants. 

“Get it out. Then return your hands to your lap.”

Barclay just manages the task, fingers shaking so badly that at one point Joseph takes him and kisses along the knuckles until they calm. His cock, like all of him, is perfect, and even as Barclay sets his hands down his mouth aches to taste it. 

Leaning forward, he nuzzles the patch of dark hair, kiss the base with a reverent moan. 

But before he can do more his head is pulled back, just slowly enough that he feels no pain, only sparks of pleasure in his skin. Once his chin is resting on Joseph’s thigh, the fingers release his hair but stay poised on the back of his head.

“That’s not for you. Not today, anyway.” Joseph wraps his free hand around his cock, sighs as he starts stroking. 

Barclay whines. He meant to say “please.” 

“As incredible as you look right now, the answer is still no. And if your chin moves from that spot, I will cover your eyes.”

“No, nonono” Barclay nestles closer, cock threatening to perk up again at the threat, “please, sir, I’ll be good, just let me watch, I’ll be good, so good.”

“I know you will. My Barclay, so obedient.” His hand moves faster, “there are so many things you want to do to me, aren’t there?”

“Yes.” Barclay whimpers, unable to look anywhere but his cock, licking his lips each time an upward stroke sends pre-cum spilling down the tip.

“There are so many things I want to do with, oh lord” his head falls back, “you. Half of them came to me now, watching you go to pieces at my feet. The things I’m going to use that monstrous cock for, nnn, lord, you’ll never want to leave my bed.”

“I already don’t. God, sir please, please I want you, please just let me-”

“St-steady, Barclay.” Joseph warns, and Barclay immediately stops straining forward, “lord, the things you do to me, the things I want, oh, _nnnh_.” He sits up slightly, meets Barclay’s eyes, “you still want a taste?”

“PleaseAH!” Joseph yanks his head forward just as he cums, droplets hitting Barclay’s cheek and lips.. Barclay groans, delighted; no one has ever done this to him before and he feels marked, owned, claimed and the feeling is so heady he wants to drown in it.

When Joseph releases him, he stays put, growls puffing out between his teeth.

“Clean me up. After all, that mess is on your account.”

Barclay moans, dips down to lap messily at his cock. Joseph holds his head and rubs his back as he does. He works gracelessly without the use of his hands, so sweat and cum soon streak his skin. Warm skin and bitter spend coat his tongue, the licks giving way to kisses; this is the part of himself Joseph has given him access to, and so he will lavish it with all the attention he can. 

“That’s, that’s enough.” Joseph eases Barclay back, hisses as he gets his clothes in order. Something is welling up inside Barclay, a fear of what comes next, and emptiness starting in his chest that threatens to hollow him out. 

Joseph falls to the floor, pulling Barclay to him, nuzzling his hair and kissing his face. 

“That was incredible, you’re incredible, Barclay, you’re wonderful you did so well, you’re amazing.”

He takes a shuddery breath. 

“Oh, oh Barclay” Joseph holds him tighter, “it’s alright. I’m here. Did, did I do something to hurt you?”

“No.” He shakes his head earnestly, “Just, uh, just feel kinda exposed. Please don’t let go.”

“Not a chance.”

Joseph holds him, the pair leaning on the base of the chair, pets his hair and whispers to him until he’s all the way back to himself. 

“Better?”

“Yeah. What’s, uh, what’s so funny?”

“You have, uh, well” Joseph snorts, trying not to giggle, “I got cum in your beard.”

“And here I thought you were fastidious.”

“I _am_ , which is why I’ll be right back.”

Joseph returns with a small washbasin and cloth, cleans Barclay’s face and smooths down his beard once it’s no longer sticky.

“There.” He cups Barclay’s cheek, meets his eyes with a loving smile. Barclay leans forward, breath locked in his chest.

Joseph meets him halfway, kiss precise and tender on his lips, and Barclay relaxes, continues forward. Joseph leans back to accommodate him, and soon he’s laying beneath him, kisses passing between them as easily as words.

“Did you mean what you said. About wanting to stay?” 

Barclay pets his hair, kisses him before replying, “Yeah, I did.”

“I’d like that too.” He draws his hands up and down Barclay’s sides.

“I, uh, I should still leave before morning. I just, I can’t risk Hayes or Woodbridge seeing me. They might, uh” he almost tells the truth, right here, Joseph’s face upturned and trusting, but he falters, “send me away.”

“Then staying apart is prudent, even if I hate it.”

“That makes two of us. Still,” Barclay smiles as Joseph sits up to kiss him, “think I can stay just a little longer tonight.”

\-------------------------------------------------

Joseph has to do something. Whether that’s call off the wedding or explain things to Aubrey or rob a bank to pay of the men threatening his family, he’ll do it. 

But he can’t go on like this, with Barclay sneaking into his room at night and out before dawn. Can’t resign himself to early morning chats in the kitchen and cold exchanges the rest of the time. Barclay deserves more. At the very least he deserves to be able to walk on his arm in public and spend the night in his bed. At the very least, he wants to be able to move Barclay in with him once he and Aubrey are married. His father isn’t going to live with them here, and Woodbridge will likely pull his nose out of their business once the wedding is over. 

His arguments are prepared when he knocks on Aubrey’s door.

“Who is it?”

“Joseph.”

“Oh, okay, come in.”

Aubrey waves to him from her spot on the window seat, Dani on the floor so Aubrey can brush and braid her hair. 

“I have an odd question. Or maybe a request. When we go through with the wedding, and Dani and Barclay with theirs, is the plan for you and she to continue being together?”

“What makes you think we’re together?” Dani says mildly.

“Observant, remember, it’s part of my job.” 

Aubrey sets the brush down, sighs, “honestly, we’re playing with fire as it is. Until I’m twenty-five and take full control of the estate, any uh, shenanigans? Yeah, let’s go with that, could end really fucking badly.”

“You’d be disinherited?” He takes a seat in the chair closest to them. 

“Probably not, and even if I was that isn’t what scares me. There’s a standard will that’s produced for the first-born in any generation of Woodbridges. My mom was the oldest child. By the terms of the will, I don’t gain control until I’m twenty-five. Until then, the estate and all of it’s servants are controlled by my uncle.”

“So he could terminate Dani’s employment as well?”

“Worse.” Dani draws her knees up to her chest, “he has a contract with each person he employs. The contract allows him to transfer us to someone else's estate, and he has business contacts all over the world. He could send us away from our loved ones. If we tried to get out of the contract for that reason, we could land in jail.”

“How-”

“None of us understood the implications of the clause until it was too late. Janelle took it to a friend who's a lawyer. He says it's legal, but only just.” 

He sits, stunned. No wonder Barclay is so worried about being discovered.

“I guess we...wait four years?” The attempt at pragmatism just saddens him. 

“Orrrrr” Aubrey grins, “we look for a different will. Mama’s positive my mom drew one up before she died. It would take precedence over the standard one.”

“So she isn’t just here for a visit.”

“I mean, she is.” Dani stands only to sit down in Aubrey’s lap, “but if in her visit she happens to turn up the will, well, that’s a bonus.” She winks.

“My mom apparently came to England for one short visit before she died, and Mama suspects it was to have the will done so it’d be legal here, then hid it so my uncle couldn’t find and destroy it.”

“Let me help you search. The more of us are looking, the better the odds of locating it.”

“You got it. But so help me, if you fuck this up for us-”

“I won’t, I won’t” he flattens against the chair at the glare from Aubrey. 

“Good. Meet us by the creepy cherub fountain at noon next Tuesday. By then, Mama should have had time to go into London for some investigating.”

He’s so excited by the prospect of a full solution that he’s in the study before he remembers he forgot to mention what was going on with Barclay.

Ah well, another time, And when he spots the vase full of flowers by the window, he thinks of something to do for Barclay in the meantime. Something to show him that he not only desires him; he loves him. 

\-------------------------------

Duck hums as he tends to the ferns in their pots. His work is mostly in the greenhouse today, keeping him out of the rain, Barclay baked him bread, and Indrid is joining him after dinner tonight. 

Indrid no longer seeks him out once, or maybe twice a day; he’s with him as often as possible. Spends most nights with him, sits and works or draws while Duck goes about his duties. Initially Duck assumed the fucking would just be an addition to their friendship. He would have been content with that, at least at the beginning. But much has happened over the last few days that’s made him question that he knows that isn't what he wants.

_“May I draw you?”_

_“Anglin for a dirty keepsake there?”_

_“No. Or, well, a keepsake yes, dirty no. At least for now.” Indrid grins as he sets his sketchpad in his lap, “you can stay as you are.”_

_“Just like this?” Duck gestures to his half-clothed (but still very covered) body as he reclines on the bed, book in hand._

_“Exactly.”_

_For awhile he reads in silence, Indrid muttering now and then as he draws._

_“Indrid? Do you ever wanna go back home?”_

_He cocks his head, looking at the ceiling, “Yes. Not forever, but certainly to visit. I would like to see my family, like to wander the hills and draw as I used to. The forest is beautiful and wild in the spring. I think you would enjoy it. Wolves and all.”_

_“It does sound interestin, from what you’ve told me. Maybe I’ll go some day.”_

_“You could go with me.” Indrid offers, softly._

_“You’d really want that?”_

_The pencil shakes as Indrid swallows and says simply, “I would like nothing more.”_

_They return to their silence, comfortable and familiar, until Indrid is done._

_“Would you like a look?”_

_“Hell yeah.” Duck hops off the bed; Indrid’s never let him see his drawings, insisting they’re not very good._

_“Holy fuck, Indrid, this, this fuckin’ amazin’!”_

_“Really? Oh, I am glad you like it so much.” Indrid beams._

_“How the fuck do you think you’re no good at this. It looks so real.”_

_“I...I suppose I am always comparing myself to those whose work I admire.”_

_“Well, knock it off” he elbows him playfully, “It’s amazin’. So are you.”_

Then, two days after that.

_“Have you gone back to Virginia since you lived here?”_

_Duck nestles closer under the covers, head on Indrid’s chest, “Nope. My sister and I write plenty. She just had her second baby, so now I got two nieces instead of one.”_

_“That’s wonderful.” Indrid hums._

_“Yeah. Would like to meet ‘em, someday. Woodbridge don’t keep me on quite as tight a leash as the others, maybe I could talk him into given’ me a month off to sail over and see ‘em.”_

_“That’s more than fair. Woodbridge is unpleasant but I do not think he’s heartless. Probably.”_

_Duck places kisses up and down his collarbone before asking, “What do you think the odds are of him giving you that same time away?”_

_He can hear the grin, “My sweet, if I say it is for business purposes, the odds are quite high.”_

_“Well then,” he kisses his neck just to hear the way he sighs, “seems like we got an engagement a little while from now.”_

He could write it off as the naivete of new love, but when he thinks on it, he and Indrid have known each other for months, grown closer with each day. The feelings he has for Indrid wrap around his heart, hold it tight, make it feel safe, make Duck feel as though any future is possible. And from the way the other man acts, Duck makes him feel the same. Duck never thought anyone could want him so much.

There is the slight problem of them not having kissed. On the mouth, that is. For reasons that escape him it hasn’t arisen naturally, even when they’re tangled up in bed. They’ve yet to pleasure one another with things other than hands or mouths, so it makes sense that kissing would arise. Yet it doesn't.

No matter, Duck intends to remedy that issue tonight. 

“Ah, Duck, there you are. I’ve been looking for you for nearly a week.” Stern steps into the greenhouse and Duck gives a small bow. 

“Sorry, been real busy. What can I do for you?”

“I need you help with a bouquet. Vincent mentioned you both design beautiful ones for the house and know which flowers correspond to what meanings.”

“That I do. This for Aubrey?”

“Yes.”

Duck leans against his work bench, arms crossed, “You sure? Because if it is, that ain’t gonna win her over.”

“I, I’m not trying to” Stern glances behind him, lowers his voice, “alright, fine, it’s not for her. I suspect you know why.”

“She and Dani finally made the jump, far as I can tell.”

“Right. I, um, it’s for a gentleman I’m fond of. And who is incredibly fond of me.” He looks so youthful and happy as he says it, smile secretive in spite of the fact it clearly wants to burst across his face. 

Duck understands, and so smiles back. 

“You want it to say anythin’ in particular?”

“That I care about him and that, wile it may take some time, I ask that he be patient so we can be together without, uh, issue.”

“Be back in uh, hmmm, lemme think, an hour maybe?”

“I will. Thank you, Duck.”

It takes some searching in the rain, but he finds what he’s looking for. Chrysanthemum for flattery, Ox-Eye for patience, Amaranth for constancy, and some very determined Jasmine for loveliness. 

It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d give to Indrid. He hopes Stern likes it for his mystery man.

“Fantastic! Duck, this is perfect, thank you so much.”

“Any time. You want me to whip up some more flowers for your fella, just let me know. And don’t worry, you’re secret’s safe with me. Woodbridge don’t tend to ask me about weddins’ and such.”

Stern gives a final bow of thanks and dashes off. 

\----------------------------------------

Stern intends to give Barclay the flowers in the kitchen. But, finding the cook absent and his father summoning them, he quickly deposits them in a vase for later. 

Which is why, when Vincent passes through, he sees the flowers and assumes they are replacements for ones that are wilting in another room. 

Which is why he sets them down in their new home, next to a stack of charts and drawing supplies, thinking nothing of it.

Which is why, when Duck slips into Indrid’s room, planning to leave the perfect bouquet as a surprise, he finds someone has beaten him to it.

\-------------------------------------------

Indrid doesn’t bother knocking on Duck’s door anymore. The gardener is expecting him, and always happy to see him. As he shuts it, Duck looks up at him from the chair by the fire. He looks worn, his eyes are reddish. It almost looks as if he’s been crying.

“Duck? What is wrong my sweet?”

“What’s wrong? What’s _wrong_?” Duck stands, glowering, “were you ever gonna fuckin tell me you were goin’ after Stern too?”

“I...I beg your pardon?” 

“I know he brought you flowers, flowers for a fella he told me liked him a whole fuckin lot.”

“But I-”

“Was this your fuckin game all along? Fuck the servant while wooin’ the gentleman, so you can run off and marry once he and Aubrey end things?”

“I did no such thing!” 

“How thickheaded do you think I am, Indrid? I saw the damn bouquet I helped him make and it was in your room.” 

“Bouquet?” Indrid blinks, mind whirring in an attempt to figure out what is going on. Unfortunately, Duck sees his silence another way.

“Ha! I fuckin knew it. All that talk about travelin’, meetin the family, stayin together, it was all just a bunch of bullshit. Christ, Indrid, if you wanted to fuck me without strings you coulda said so rather than, than” he looks at the fire, defeated, “confirmin that I ain’t good enough for you. I’m just a gardener. Not a fuckin savant with money to my name. Shoulda known you didn’t really want me like that.” 

The bitterness flits across the room, turning to anger by the time it hits Indrid.

“How _dare_ you presume to know what I want, how I feel about you. I care for you more than I’ve cared for anyone in a long, long time. And if whatever nonsense about flowers you’re on about has you convinced my words to you were false, then maybe you are not the man I think you. The Duck I know is not so clumsy in his conclusions.”

“Save it. I know someone tryin’ to cover their ass when I hear it. The Duck you know don’t feel like listenin to your bullshit anymore. ” Duck storms past him, throwing the door open.

“It is not bullshit! I’m telling the truth” he snarls. 

“Get out.”

“No. You are not listening to me.”

“Out.” Duck points, voice a growl. 

Indrid takes a deep breath. Maybe he calms down, he can understand, can help Duck calm down too, “Duck, please, I have no idea what is going on. Please, let’s start at the beginning?”

“You wanna start at the beginning? Fine.” Duck grabs his jacket, dragging him out into the rainy dusk, “you go huddle up by that wall over there and this time I’ll point you away from the hall so I don’t get my heart broken again.”

The door slams and Indrid jumps backwards, hating the sound. 

No, it can’t end like this. He can’t lose Duck so quickly. His heart is peeling apart layer by layer. 

He raps, then bangs on the door, Beacon howling when he does. 

“Duck, please. Please just listen to. Please I, I, want to make things right. I do not want to lose you.”

No answer. 

“Please.”

The light upstairs goes out.

“Please.” He whispers, head resting against the door, water streaming down his face, “Please. I think I love you.”

How long he stands there, repeating those words to the uninterested night air, remains a mystery even to him.


	8. Dances & Demotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern comforts. Indrid confesses. Aubrey caresses.

When Joseph opens the door to his rooms he’s not expecting Indrid to be standing there, hands behind his back, clothes rain-soaked, and glasses shoved as high up his nose as they will go

“Mr. Cold, this is unexpected.”

“It seems to be the day for such things. May I come in?” His voice is flat. 

“Of course.” 

As soon as the door is shut, Indrid whirls on him, “did you leave flowers in my room today?”

“No.” Joseph frowns, “why would I?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, but Duck believes you did and now he is very angry with me.” Indrid’s fingers twitch nervously, “he said it was a bouquet he helped you create.”

“He...oh no. I, um, I did have him make a bouquet for someone, but I set in down when my father summoned me and by the time I came back it was gone. I assumed someone disposed of it or the, um, the intended recipient found it. Apparently it ended up in your room.”

“Apparently.” Indrid mutters, sitting down heavily in the chair nearest the fire.

“I didn’t realize you’re wooing him.” Joseph sits down across from the pale-haired man, who keeps rubbing his hands up and down his arms, as if soothing himself.

“ _Was_ wooing him, thanks to this mix-up.” Indrid looks up at him, cocks his head, “it surprises you that I made no attempt to hide it.”

“A little, yes.” He’s mostly used to Indrid’s ability to predict his reactions. Mostly. 

“I have no reason to conceal it, nor does he, really. Woodbridge speaks as if I am of the same social standing as the rest of you, but I am not. I am his employee, just as Duck is. And I am often happier off in the gardens and grounds with him, and he is not all that interested in getting embroiled in the doings of the house. It makes sense to conduct our relationship mainly in his home.” He winces, corrects himself sternly, “ _made_ sense.”

“Mr. Cold, first thing tomorrow I’ll go to Duck and explain what happened. You may still need to patch up whatever row you had, but that should clear up the misunderstanding.”

“Thank you.” Indrid curls his legs up to his chest.

Another knock on his door.

“Come in.”

“Your evening tea, sir.” Barclay nudges the door shut with his elbow, meaning he doesn’t see Indrid until the other man is staring at him with a knowing smile. 

“I see now why you assumed I would hide my relationship with Duck. Duck intimated that Dani and Aubrey may not be fully invested in their respective marriages, but I see now the same is true for their future husbands. Be cautious, Barclay. You know how Woodbridge is.”

“I know.” Barclay sags.

“The likelihood is high you will be discovered.”

“Not helping.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Indrid shrinks further in on himself, “I simply wanted you to know your odds.”

Barclay sets the tea tray down with a sigh, “I, uh, I know. We haven't even told Dani and Aubrey about us because it just feels too dangerous to give any more people, even ones we trust, that information. So I'm feeling kinda tense is all.”

“In that case, I will take my leave. I suspect you have some ways you would like to relieve said tension.” Indrid stands more slowly than normal, moves towards the door with an air of misery hanging about him. Were it anyone else, Joseph would think he was being manipulative. But Indrid doesn’t approach the world in that way. He’s always kind to Barclay and Joseph, in that odd manner of his. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have him on their side in the hunt for the will.

“Mr. Cold. Indrid. Would you like to stay and talk awhile?”

“I, ah, I do not wish to impose on your time together.”

“You aren’t. Well, uh, you are, but I think what Joseph means is that we’re both happy to help.”

Indrid stares at them, blinking slowly behind his glasses. 

“Yes. I would like to stay for a time.” He smiles awkwardly, “at the very least, perhaps you can help me determine how best to explain myself to Duck tomorrow.”

\--------------------------------------------------

“The nerve!” Aubrey paces back and forth by the fountain, Dani and Mama perched and watching her. Or, rather, Dani watches her while Mama whittles away at a small, wooden Duck. Dr. Harris Bonkers pays her no attention, too interested in nibbling some nearby rose bushes. 

“Yeah, I ain’t too happy at the prospect of a ball neither. Rather get my teeth pulled than go, but this ain’t one to fight your uncle on.”

“Besides, sometimes they’re fun. I kinda like the dancing parts.” Dani looks dreamily up at the sky.

“Not to mention you two’ll have chances to dance with each other.”

“True.” Aubrey stops, grinning at Dani.

The tromp of boots on grass announces the arrival of their co-conspirators, but it’s not who they’re expecting. Stern is there, but it’s Indrid with him instead of Barclay.

“Uhhhhhh.”

“He’s with us.” 

Indrid nods, grinning in a way that’s probably supposed to be reassuring.

“Long story short, he's all for finding a way to get everyone out from under Woodbridge's thumb. Do you know where Barclay is? I can’t find him.’

“Or Duck. I would like to speak with him as soon as possible.”

“May have to wait until tomorrow then.” Mama tucks the duck back into her pocket. 

“Why?” Indrid looks at Mama while Stern looks at Aubrey.

She sighs, “My uncle is hosting a ball tomorrow. He sent Barclay, Duck, and Jake into the city for all the supplies and to run a bunch of errands for him.”

“That’s why my father told me to make sure my best clothes are pressed and ready. Lord, would it kill the man to just tell me what’s going on?”

“Could be. Try asking him a question with a direct answer. Maybe we can get rid of at least one of our problems.”

Stern looks startled, then amused.

“Sorry.” Aubrey sits down next to Dani, who takes her hand, “I’m just not looking forward to the ball. It’s supposed to announce our engagement to the world, which means we have to spend all night with people congratulating us and I have to pretend to be happy that I’m marrying you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Plus Woodbridge always invites his business contacts, who are basically all like him.” Dani adds as Aubrey flops her head onto her shoulder, “But! Mama does have good news.”

“In a way.” Mama sets he hands on the stones, “I did some diggin in London, turns out Aubrey’s mama did write up a second will. Family lawyer confirmed it for me. Said she insisted on takin it to the hall with her when it was finished. Fella’s gettin up there in years so he don’t recall what all was in it.”

“At least we know it’s here.” Stern muses.

“Trouble is, Woodbridge does too. Lawyer told him about it, not realizin why his sister might want to keep that will a secret. But she was a clever woman, and I don't think Woodbridge found out about it until quite awhile after her death."

“How do we even know it’s still here?”

“We don’t.” Aubrey mutters. When she looks up, Indrid is staring at the flowing fountain. 

“I think our chances, while not perfect, are still good. If Mrs. Little was a smart woman, she likely knew how to hide the will so her brother would not be able to locate it. That does not mean he has not, given all the time he has had to search, but it is certainly worth trying.”

“Then here’s the plan: we all start by searchin our own rooms, except Aubrey and Dani since they’ve lived here for ten years. I’ll divvy up a map of the hall and grounds, and then we start searchin those. We all agreed?”

Aubrey holds tight to Dani’s hand as she says, along with all the others, “Agreed.”

\--------------------------------------------------

Indrid has not had a good day and a half.

Though he is glad to be part of the endeavor, his search of his chambers yielded no sign of the will. Then, when he sought out Duck the next morning to apologize and explain the misunderstanding, the gardener was nowhere to be found. He is, in all likelihood, hiding from him, and the thought makes Indrid want to crawl beneath his bed and live there until the winter. 

And now Woodbridge wants to speak with him, just an hour before the dance is set to begin. Several important clients have already arrived; he’s heard Vincent announcing them and ushering them about the lower levels. 

So when he enters the study to find Woodbridge and a half dozen wealthy, powerful men looking at him, he is neither happy nor surprised.

“Good evening, gentleman. Mr. Woodbridge, you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Mr. Cold, over the past few months you have provided everyone in this room with advice on agricultural, land, and trade ventures. And, as my associates have brought to my attention, you have made a string of errors.”

“Not errors, sir. Miscalculations. As I have said many times, when probability and patterns play a large role in the world, there will always be unexpected occurrences. My recommendations are based on what is most likely, not what is guaranteed.”

“That’s all well and good for you to say, you are not the one losing thousands of pounds from suppliers failing to produce crops.” The man closest to him on the right huffs. 

“You are right, I am not. Though I worry more about your suppliers, as that is the extent of their livelihood, when I know it is not the extent of yours. And if you recall, I did suggest caution this year, as I located records suggesting that eruptions, such as that of Mount Tambora last year, can cause strange weather. Perhaps now is the time to remind you all of my findings on many of Spain’s holdings in South America and the likelihood they will declare independence, which could have ramifications for-”

“No, Mr. Cold, we do not want any more advice. We want you to account for your mistakes.” Woodbridge says coldly.

“They are not mistakes, for goodness sake, they are…” he takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, wills his emotions to recede beneath the waters of his mind. He must think only in terms of odds until this conversation ends; what will please the listeners, soothe their misplaced anger, keep his family secure.

He opens his eyes, musters his best smile, “Apologies, gentlemen. I see now that my errors have caused you a great deal of trouble. Rest assured I am working to remedy them, and that going forward my predictions will take new factors into account.”

“You would be wise to do so. I have been patient with you, Mr. Cold, because of your immense talent. But if you put my, or my associates” Woodbridge gestures to the assembled men, “finances in further jeopardy, you will be in a great deal of trouble.”

“Understood, sir.” Indrid bows, straightens, “I take it I am dismissed.”

“Correct.”

He exits the room, climbs the stairs to his bedroom and begins his final preparations for the evening. He can’t think about Woodbridge’s threat, not right now. He must be calm, must win back the trust of his employer and the others little by little over the course of the night. 

Pulling out his files, he spends the next forty minutes reviewing his notes on the men in that room, their business interests and temperaments, until he’s satisfied he has what he needs to give them smaller, yet fruitful, recommendations. 

He ties on his red ascot, brushes lint from his clothes (all black save for his shirt, which is slate grey), and journeys towards the music and laughter downstairs. He is the seer, he is capable of setting aside all but the odds, thinking only of the futures. 

Stepping into the ballroom, only one head turns to acknowledge him. And it sends a bolt of white-long longing through his chest. 

Duck, in a borrowed suit, is standing next to the other servants. He must be helping Barclay with the extra large gathering. Indrid steps towards him, their eyes still locked, wondering if he can steal him away for a dance

The Duck looks away, radiating that same annoyance he directed at Indrid in the days they first knew each other. 

Indrid presses his feelings beneath the surface, hopes they drown, and disappears into the crowd. 

\----------------------------------------------------

“Have you tried just letting him apologize?” Dani murmurs as she sips her wine.

“Why?” Duck sets the fresh tray of fruit down on the large table at the back of the room.

“Because every time you get a spare second and his back is turned, you stare at him like this.” She makes an exaggerated version of the longing look she keeps witnessing and Duck glares at her.

“He don’t want me, not the way I want him. Found that out the hard way.”

“Uh, about that.” Barclay whispers, handing off a platter of empty glasses to Vincent, “he definitely does want you. He talked about it for a long time two nights ago.”

“And spent a huge part of yesterday trying to find you so he could apologize.” Dani adds. 

“I’m sure he did. Sure he’s hopin to get back in my good graces so we can fuck again while he goes on--nevermind. But that ain’t the only thing I want. I ain’t gonna take scraps from him.”

“I don’t think that’s-” 

“I’m gonna get more rolls for that tray.” Duck turns before Barclay can say another word. 

He looks at Dani and shrugs.

“Guess that’s one he was to work out on his own.”

“No kidding. Besides, Duck’s stubborn, but Indrid isn’t exactly a pushover. I’ve heard him argue with Woodbridge almost as much as Aubrey does. Speaking of which-” she grabs a new glass, “my lady needs a new drink.”

As she walks across the room, dodging chatting clumps of guests, all she cares to focus on is Aubrey. The other woman’s dark hair is up, her dress a fiery red, her mother's fire opal pendant hanging perfectly around her neck. Has Dani followed the line of that necklace down to stare at Aubrey’s chest? Yes. Has Aubrey caught her doing this multiple times today and teased her mercilessly? Also yes.

Stern doesn’t look too bad, all things considered. He’s in a deep blue jacket, and multiple people have told him what a handsome pair he and Aubrey make. And they do; side by side, they seem the perfect couple to take over Sylvain Hall. Bur Dani knows better. She knows there’s only one person in that room that Aubrey wants. And knowing that she’s the one makes her feel as if she’s running on clouds.

“Another glass, your ladyship?” She curtsies. 

Aubrey reaches for the glass, touching their fingers together. Then she stops, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Thank you, Dani. But you know, I think I need to fix my hair; I feel it slipping and I’ll need your help. Excuse us.” She curtsies to the two couples she and Stern were speaking with before flouncing from the room and up the stairs, Dani right behind her all the way.

“Aubrey, your hair is fiMp _mmmmmmm_.” Dani drapes her arms around Aubrey, giggling when she bites her lip teasingly. 

“Yup, I know” she bumps their noses together, “but you look so good I needed some time alone. Everyone’s talking about how nice I look, but they’ve got no idea what they’re talking about. You’re the prettiest woman in the room.”

“Aubrey, I’m pretty sure this dress has a grass stain on it somewhere.” Dani looks down at the light green dress with golden flowers embroidered across it.

“I know what I said.” Aubrey nudges her backward until she’s against the door, kissing her hungrily as her hand slides down the front of her dress. 

“Don’t tease, fireblossom.”

“I’m not.” Aubrey purrs, slipping her hand between Dani’s thighs as best she can through the layers of cloth.

“Fuck.” She holds onto Aubrey's shoulders, certain her knees won’t support her as pleasure courses across her nerves.

“Good?” Aubrey moves her fingers in steady circles, kissing lightly along her neck.

“Uhuh, mmmm, damn this dress, I want you to touch me everywhere.”

“Later. Right now, I wanna be good to youOOoohfuck.” Aubrey gasps as Dani finally manages to get a hand down the front of her dress. Teasing her fingers across the nipple earns her a moan, which Aubrey muffles against her lips. 

“As soon as we get more than ten minutes to ourselves, these are _mine_.” She squeezes and Aubrey squeaks, then laughs when Dani shudders from her fingers working in rapid circles. 

“You got it. They like you a whole lot ah! Ahnnnn especially when you do that.”

“What, this?” She gropes and teases all at once.

“Ah!” Aubrey giggles, dangerously loud, “yes, fuck, it’s so fucking hard to be quiet with you.”

“Think I know what to do.” Dani pulls her up into a kiss, luxuriating fiercely in every curve of her mouth as heat builds relentlessly in her gut.

“Aubrey” she pants.

“Right here, honey.” Her thumb finds just the right angle and Dani writhes against the door, Aubrey drinking in and swallowing down each gasping, loving repetition of her name.

Dani loops her arms against Aubrey’s shoulders as the shorter woman kisses each cheek in turn while smoothing down the green and gold fabric. 

“I’ll never get tired of that.”

“Me neither.” Aubrey's eyes sparkle in the dark, and Dani’s whole heart twists with joy at the thought that the sparkle is there because of her. 

“Are we, um, both decent?” Aubrey takes a step back, looking her up and down.

“I think...no, hold on, we need to fix your lips, they’re smudged.”

“Wonder how” Aubrey bounces her eyebrows before hurrying to her dressing table. Once her face shows no sign of their interlude, they exit into the hall and walk casually towards the stairs. 

“You ought to be careful, Barclay.”

They both freeze. That voice coming from the floor below them; it’s familiar but something sounds off about it.

“Yes, sir.”

“Neither of us enjoy a mess, you know.”

Aubrey turns and mouths, “Stern?” 

“No, sir. I’ll, uh, d-do my best, sir.”

“Good. It’s in your, uh, best interest to behave.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all.”

“Very good, sir.”

Footfalls as Barclay leaves the hall. Dani is fuming by the time they reach the last step, Stern standing with his back to him, sipping from a crystal glass. 

“What the hell was that?”

Stern whirls, alarmed, “what was what?”

“We heard you talking to Barclay just now. I know you’ve been weirdly cold to him lately, but scolding him like that was, was-”

“Completely unacceptable in my house.” Aubrey crosses her arms. 

Stern straightens his jacket, clears his throat, “You’re right. The evening has made me stressed and I was too short with him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not us you need to apologize to.” Aubrey glares at him. 

“Right. I’ll be certain to apologize to him too. Now” he offers them each an arm, “shall we? The lions den awaits.”

Aubrey flashes Dani her best grin, “Bring it on.”

\------------------------------------------------------------

Except that it’s rude, Indrid would be hiding under the dessert table right now. Functions like this leave him a horrible combination of overstimulated and lonely; everyone wants his advice, no one actually wants his company. The few people who do like him are busy, either as servants or as the guests of honor, and so he can only get in a few sentences to them at a time. 

He’s also somewhat annoyed with Duck; the man won’t give him a chance to explain, nor has he listened to what Barclay or Dani apparently tried to say on Indrid's behalf. He knows he’s hurting, that bad luck and worse timing has kept them from being able to talk about what really happened, and so the hurt has been left to fester in Duck’s chest. All the same, it stings that Duck has written him off so easily. 

At least the few clients he’s spoken to seem soothed by his advice, more willing to listen when he suggests endeavors that likely have good outcomes with little risk. He’d still rather be talking to Duck about plants, but he’ll take what he can get. 

As the party is winding down, and only a few of Woodbridge's closest acquaintances, Hayes, Mama (who spent the night surrounded by a half-dozen women curious to know about her life in America) and Aubrey and the others (minus Vincent, who collapsed into bed when Duck and Barclay assured him they would handle clean-up), Woodbridge turns to Stern with an unnerving half-smile. 

“So tell me, Mr. Stern, about those flowers I saw you carrying the other day.”

Stern doesn’t flinch, but a tray wobbles for an instant in Barclay’s hand.

“Flowers, Mr Woodbridge?”

“Yes. A very distinct collection of them, that I later spied upon Mr. Cold’s desk when I went into his room to retrieve some notes.”

(Of course the man would go into his room without permission).

“I, uh, that is-”

“Joseph, we’ve spoken about this, and I made it clear that if you jeopardized your union with Lady Aubrey-” Hayes grey eyes turn fierce.

“I did no such thing.”

“Nope, no jeopardizing here.” Aubrey adds, staying close to Dani.

“My dear niece, the flowers were clearly meant to communicate the message to a secret lover.”

Hayes opens his mouth to speak, and in that instant Indrid sees all the futures unfold; Hayes, unrelenting, getting an accidental reveal of the truth from Barclay as he tries to cover for the others. Or worse, Duck trying and failing to lie to protect his friends. Woodbridge sending Dani and Barclay away. Duck, not an offending party, would likely stay. Indrid could have the chance to make things right with him while the other’s lives went to ruins.

“It was my fault.” Indrid says, quiet and plain.

“What?” Woodbridge advances on him. 

“I...I sent the flowers to Joseph. You saw him returning them to me, as he does not hold any feelings of that nature for me and did not wish to encourage my affections and end his engagement to Lady Aubrey. I kept them for a day as a memento to my own foolish heart.”

Woodbridge seems to be gearing up to hurl him out a window. All he can focus on is Duck, face that of someone who has, against all their own hopes, been proven right.

“Mr. Cold, this is absolutely unacceptable. And coupled with your previous errors-”

“No doubt you wish me to return to the city. I will prepare my things and depart shortly.”

“No. This is the last straw, Mr. Cold. I am terminating your employment. And what’s more” he’s now toe to toe with Indrid, and it takes all his effort to remain stoic, “I will make certain that you can never find employment on this continent, or anywhere I have contacts, again.”

\---------------------------------------------------  
“I will make certain that you can never find employment on this continent, or anywhere I have contacts, again.”

Duck’s working out how to pick up the pieces of his heart from the floor when Woodbridge says those words.

“I...Mr. Woodbridge, please. My family is no doubt suffering under the poor farming conditions of this year. If I cannot find employment, I cannot care for them.”

“You should have considered that earlier. You are a seer who has not only failed to see what I need you to, but you have nearly ruined my family. I have no use for you here.”

Indrid nods, stays put after Woodbridge turns away from him. It’s only when no one else is looking that his facade cracks and Duck sees fear, raw and deep, race across his face. 

Serves him right. Now Duck won’t have to see him again, and his life will be better for it.

Christ, he knows he’s a bad liar, but that was unconvincing even for him.

“Mr. Woodbridge? I, uh, don’t mean to presume, sir, but I recall you sayin’ it was fine by you if I took on a paid assistant.”

“I fail to see how this is relevant.”

Duck points towards Indrid, “That pair of hands is as, uh, as good as any to me.”

Woodbridge smiles with genuine amusement, which is somehow worse than the alternative, “yes. I like that idea rather a lot. It may do you some good, Mr.Cold.”

“Perhaps it will.” Indrid responds flatly.

“Move your things into the gardeners house tomorrow. Goodnight.” With that, he exits, row of men just like him in tow.

Duck goes back to wiping down silver when a tall, slender shadow falls across him. 

“Thank you, Duck, a thousand times thank you, I, I promise I will-” 

Duck holds up his hand, stemming the tide of affection threatening to overwhelm him “be to the house at five sharp. And from now on, you don’t call me Duck. Far as you’re concerned, my name is Mr. Newton. Now, I’d advise you to go get some rest. We got a hell of a day ahead of us.”

Indrid’s face falters, then recovers into a flat smile, “Understood. Sir.”


	9. Sighs & "Sirs"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern finishes his book. Duck prunes some trees. Indrid tries his best.

“Do you know what happened earlier, Barclay?”

“No, sir.” Barclay stands, hands behind his back, watching as Stern dresses down to his trousers and shirt.

“Aubrey and Dani thought I was ordering you about rudely. When we were alone by the stairs.”

Barclay blushes, and Stern smiles at him as he rolls up his sleeves. He’s glad his lover has friends who would so quickly rush to his defense. He’s relieved they didn’t come down the stairs to the sight of him feeding Barclay one of the sweets he snuck out from the table, leaving his thumb in his mouth until he’d licked it clean.

“Was I too rude?” It’s genuine, even in the midst of the game.

“No, sir.” Barclay grins at him. 

“Good. All the same, they told me to apologize. So,” he pulls his shirt off, “remove your clothes and kneel on the bed. Eyes shut.”

“Yessir.” Barclay’s voice is as hurried as his movements, jacket and shoes hitting the ground. Stern stares pointedly at the growing pile, but waits until he’s naked to speak.

“Fold all that and set it over on my desk.”

Barclay obeys, giving Stern ample time to appreciate the muscles in his thighs and develop several new ideas for how to make use of his oh-so-tempting ass. 

Once Barclay is on the bed, Stern finishes removing his clothes and retrieves a condom and a tin of lube from beneath a deliberately messy stack of papers on his desk. He joins the other man, smirks when he sees his hands balled up in his lap from anticipation. 

“You’re half hard just from undressing for me?”

“Yes, sir, god, I, you know I love it when you watch me.”

“Good. Because I like watching you.” He strokes his beard, and Barclay leans into his hand. It’s so trusting, so compliant, and he leans in to kiss his cheek. He adores ordering him around, but he never, ever wants Barclay to think he looks down on him. 

“You know, while I relish your cooking, this is going to waste beneath all those clothes.” He teases his fingernails across that broad chest, then pets down across his stomach and thighs, hair tickling his palms. 

“Th-thank you, sir.” 

“So polite. That deserves courtesy in return. Do you know what my apology is?”

“No, sir.” Barclay appears to be holding his breath.

Stern cups his chin, “I’m going to let you fuck me.”

Barclay moans, tipping forward to grab his hips, head falling heavy onto Stern’s shoulder, “ _Yes_ , fuck yes, sir, thank you.”

“Don’t get too excited.”

“Too late.” Barclay mumbles into his skin and Stern chuckles.

“I still expect you to behave in the process. Will you do that for me?” He strokes his hair, coppery in the firelight. It’s soft, a bit tangled in patches and--thanks to their arrangement-- is now one of his favorite feelings on earth. 

“I’d run naked and barefoot through the woods howling at the moon if that’s what you wanted. Sir.”

“No. Not today. You are to stay in this position until I tell you otherwise.” He scoots backward, Barclay whining at the loss of contact but keeping his eyes shut.

“Barclay, don’t fuss. I need to get ready for you to fuck me and, given this-” he leans forward, dragging his finger up Barclay’s cock, making him moan, “I need some serious preparation.” 

With that he undoes his trousers, dropping them and his underwear to the floor. Laying back, he spreads his legs and slicks his fingers up. Pressing the first in, he hisses; he’s so excited at the sight of Barclay before him and the thought of what’s to come that his body is wound too tight. Breathing deep, he concentrates on relaxing, which becomes difficult whenever he unnoticed Barclay’s cock, thick and long between his thighs. Gradually he relaxes, manages a second finger, then a third, scissoring them gently. The fourth finger is a challenge, but a necessary one. The stretch is satisfying, his cock perking up as he flexes his fingers. He moans over and over, grinning at how Barclay squirms each time, his cock twitching at the sound. 

“I’m ready.” He sits up, retrieving the second condom. Rolling it down Barclay’s cock produces a little moan of anticipation. 

“Here is what you'll do. I'm nearly done with my novel. You may fuck me while I read, provided you don't disturb me.”

“H-how?”

“That’s up to you, now isn’t it?”

“Oh _god_.” Barclay moans, then yelps as Stern delivers several rapid, firm strokes to his cock.

“Ready?”

“Wait. Can, can I please see you first, sir?” 

Stern kisses him, slow and precise, cupping his head and petting his hair as he does,“Of course. Open your eyes.”

Barclay gasps as soon as he does, “Holy shit.”

Stern laughs, kisses him again, “Would you like to touch as well?”

“ _God_ yeah.”

He rolls onto his stomach, grabbing his novel from under the pillow where he stashed it last night. He expects Barclay to be on him immediately. After a moment, he wiggles his ass enticingly.

“Well?”

“I, uh, are there more instructions, sir?”

He glances behind him, finds Barclay waiting between his legs, cock in his trembling hand and eyes flicking between his ass and face. Lust radiates off him in waves, his desire to be in and on Stern plain in his eyes. Yet still he waits, restrains himself, puts all his access to pleasure in Sterns hands. It’s a responsibility he takes seriously, and he prides himself on finding ways to structure the commands for patience, for obedience, in such a way that they ultimately enhance the experience for the other man. 

“As a matter of fact, I’ve just decided there are. You're not to cum until I’m done reading. Can you do that for me?”

“I, I can try, sir.”

“Good boy.” He turns back to his book, opening it as the bed shifts behind him. Large, rough hands knead his ass, a low rumble of appreciation landing on the pillows as Barclay shifts his hips gingerly up. Stern doesn’t move a muscle to help him; if Barclay wants him in that position, he can do the work to keep him there. 

When the cockhead presses into him he gasps, fingers crumpling the edge of a page. Barclay pushes in another inch, then pulls back. The pressure and stretch are intense, delicious heat coursing through him each time Barclay moves. Whimpers and moans surround him, growing in volume each time he manages a deeper thrust. 

Stern is halfway to the end of the chapter by the time Barclay is most of the way in. He’s doing his best to seem calm, disinterested, knowing full well the effect that has on the cook. Stern's swallowed down each "yes" that tries to escape, forced deep breaths through his teeth as his heart beats so hard it might shake the bed. 

When Barclay thrusts all the way, his composure fails him. They moan in tandem, Barclays fingers digging into his skin as he pushes back, body hungry for more even though he’s as stretched as he can comfortably manage. 

The first thrusts are shallow, Barclay testing how much he’s allowed, how hard he can go. Stern forces his focus onto the book. Six pages to go. 

A sharper snap of the hips and he moans again. But the sound is nothing compared to the noise coming from Barclay as he repeats the same motion. He grunts and growls each time the base of his cock rams into Sterns ass, moans steadily whenever he pulls out. Stern’s cock is staining the sheets from the sound alone. 

Still though, he must be strict. Barclay needs it (Barclay wants it).

“BarclayAH” his words catch thanks to a harder thrust, “you know I require quiet to read.”

The noise stops immediately. On the next thrusts there’s heavy breathing and the delectable sound of Barclay straining to be quiet. Needy whimpers muffled beneath the tongue grunts forced to stay in the chest; these are some of his favorite sounds on earth. 

Two pages to go. 

“Much better. Oh, the reward you’re going to get, nnnnfff” he drops his head to the pillow as Barclay, spurred on by his tone, fucks him faster, “lord, I cannot wait.”

“S-so don’t, sir.” There’s a hint of cheek in the response, but he let’s it slide on account of the pleasure buzzing through his every nerve. 

“Patience, Barclay. Patience and, fuck, caution; if you cum before I’m done, I won’t let you near my cock for the next three days.”

“Sir, please, I’m, I’m close, please, _please_ ” his hips are pumping frantically, voice cracking. 

“Barclay.” Stern says, a warning this time. 

Shuddery, strained breathing as Barclay slows down, the long, drawn-out thrusts making Stern nearly drool on the pages. At one point Barclay stops moving entirely, gripping Stern so firmly he finds bruises the next day. 

Half a page to go.

“You’re doing so well.” He coos, reaching back without looking to pat Barclay’s hand, “I know it’s hard” he snickers at his own pun, “but you can manage.”

He reads the last paragraphs hastily. Shuts the book and sets it on the other pillow. 

Barclay is full-on shaking now, but still waiting for his word.

“Hmm, maybe I ought to start on the next one….”

It’s not quite a howl, but a needful, desperate sound curls out of Barclays mouth. It’s followed by hiccuping breaths and Stern looks back, worried he’s pushed too far. 

Barclay’s pupils are blown wide, their edges wet. His hair is a mess about his face and sweat is dripping down his brow. When he notices Stern watching him, he grins, a spark of determination flashing across his face. 

Stern turns to the pillows, “Then again, you’ve been so good, I should keep my word. You can go ahead and cu-FUCKohlordohfuckoh _fuck_.” His hands scrabble at the blankets as he’s yanked up and back by his hips, Barclay ramming to him with growling thanks. The stretch that was intense at a slow speed is now overwhelming, and he shoves his face into the bed to stifle a cry that would wake the whole house. 

“Yes, yes, fuck, sir, thank you, thank you, fuck your ass is incredible.”

“And because you’ve, ohlord, done so well, it’s yours to do with as you please.”

A pause, Barclay curving forward to whisper coyly in his ear, “you sure about that, sir?”

“YesYES, oh fuck, Barclay” He whimpers the cooks name over and over as his cock slams into him, the thud of his cock loud and filthy and perfect in his ears. When Barclay shifts them he finds an angle that has Stern seeing stars.

“Barclay, love, yes, that’s it, so good, you’re so good, lord yes, more, harderAHnnnnyes, good boy, good-” With a gasp of shock he cums across the bed, Barclay chuckling proudly as he does. Just as he goes limp he murmurs, “don’t stop.”

“Not a chance _sir_.” Barclay growls, hunches over him and thrusts hard and erratic, “gonna fuck you so good you won’t let anyone but me in ever again, fuck, gonna make sure you’re so fucking stretched and ruined you can take me whenever you want, shit, shit, oh sir, Joseph, fuck, thankyouthankyoutha-” He groans, shoving all the way in as he spills, mouthing at Sterns back and shoulders as his hips pulse. Stern whines from sensitivity as he takes his time pulling out. 

Then they collapse, one on top of the other, in a panting pile. 

When he finally gets his body under control, Stern rolls over, Barclay lifting himself just enough to allow the movement.

“Barclay?” Stern strokes his hair tenderly, waiting for him to look up before continuing, “are you alright?”

“Think I just came so hard my brain shut off. And I feel a little, uh, a little empty.”

“I know the feeling.” Stern wiggles slightly as lube drip downs his leg.

Barclay chuckles, headbutts his shoulder playfully. Stern hugs him close, scritches his nails down his back 

“I’ll hold you as long as you like. Anything else?”

“Water. In a minute, don’t wanna let go right now.” Barclay mumbles, nuzzling his neck.

“Noted. Food? I snuck a few things up here in case I got hungry later, but I ate so much tonight I won’t be needing them.”

“I noticed.”

“And I noticed you noticing. Why do you think I made such a show of enjoying myself?”

“You’re a shameless flirt, you know that?” Barclay kisses his chin.

“I have plenty of shame. Just not when it comes to you.” Stern kisses the top of his head.

“Can I stay the night?” Barclay asks softly. 

“You’re really alright with that? I know you worry about getting caught leaving.”

“Can just have you go out first in the morning to make sure it’s clear. I don’t wanna be away from you at all tonight.”

“Likewise.” Stern sits them up, legs twinging, “in that case, love, let’s get properly into bed.”

“Love?” Barclay looks at him hopefully.

Stern nods, affection knotting up his heart and his tongue.

Barclay kisses him, eager and blissful, “I love you too.”

\---------------------------------------------

Duck’s only finished dressing when the knock comes on the door. 

He opens it, excitement and dread warring in his stomach. Indrid stands on the step, eyes downcast. Duck wants to push him away, or tell him to go start digging holes in the mud this instant. 

He wants to cup his chin and tell him it will all be okay, bring him inside and warm him by the fire until he stops looking so...flat. 

He settles for, “you know, you ain’t dressed for work.”

“I am aware. If you recall, I do not possess any clothes designed for outdoor labor.” Indrid glances at him over his glasses, then hastily adds, “sir.”

“None? Not even, I dunno, stuff for huntin or ridin?”

“Du-, Mr. Newton, have you ever known me to do such things?”

“Guess not. Least you still got Leos boots, but the rest-”

“It’s fine. This is as comfortable set of clothes to dirty as any.”

He could just let him do it. 

“No” he sighs, feeling put upon more by his own nature than Indrid’s actions, “come in a sec. Leo left some other things behind, might have some clothes that fit you better’n mine would.”

Indrid steps inside, waits silently as Duck rifles through the back of a closet. He finds two sets of clothes and, while they’re a bit short around the wrists and oddly loose around the chest, they do the job. 

Soon they’re side by side in the orchard, rain running off Duck’s oilskin and pattering on Indrid’s glasses. 

“Right, first thing we gotta do is get what fruit we can off these plum trees, and make sure we prune ‘em back if we need to. We got lucky, rain didn’t knock all the damn blossoms off so we got some that ripened.”

He hands Indrid a pair of pruning shears, “You take those two rows, I’ll take these two.”

As he turns, Indrid speaks up, “how do I do that?”

He groans, face turned to the sky, “you honestly tellin’ me you don’t know how to pick fruit?”

“No.” A hint of annoyance in his voice, “That much I can do. I do not know which parts of the tree to cut. I, ah, I do not wish to do it wrong and make more trouble for you.”

Duck steps beside him, pointing to a nearby tree, “see how that branch is turnin that sickly color?”

“Yes.”

“Any limbs like that gotta go, so they don’t infect the rest of the tree. If you’ve harvested all the fruit of a limb or a clump of limbs and it’s sagging from weight, cut the whole thing off or prune it back. That way it don’t snap off and do damage.”

“Understood, sir.” 

Indrid doesn’t work as fast as Duck does, but he’s not horrendously slow, and they soon move on to cutting the lawns, then wrestling with yet another blackberry bush that is trying to conquer half the plants around it.

They barely speak the entire time. 

It’s not the companionable silence of the previous weeks; it’s steep, cold, conversational cliff-sides that neither can find a hold on. Duck is reluctant to try; he feels safe here on his little ledge of longing, intends to nurse his heart back to health by keeping Indrid at a distance. Indrid does not push the matter which, to Duck, is further proof of his guilty conscience.

In spite of his efforts, Duck can't keep his heart as hardened as he'd like. When their day is done and Indrid is wincing and slow-moving from the aches and pains of his first day, Duck offers him the jar of salve he and Dani figured out how to make to soothe his muscles. Makes tea, sets dinner on the table and offers Indrid the seat across from him.

Indrid refuses it, politely, each time. It’s like living with his ghost rather than the man himself, his gaze often far away, his lilt soft, face working hard to stay placid or stoic. Duck never realized he could have Indrid in the room yet still miss him. 

He reminds himself, over and over as he puts the dishes away and Indrid stokes the fire, that Indrid created this situation himself. But when Winnie, oblivious to the unhappiness in the air, hops onto Indrid’s lap and he coos, scratching her ears and smiling for the first time all day, Duck is so relieved he sags against the wall. 

Eventually, Indrid stands, heading towards his room. It’s empty save for the bed, wardrobe, desk, lamp, and the extra set of clothes, as no one came to deliver his things and he had no time to do it himself. 

“Unless you need my, I am going to bed.”

Duck nods to show he heard him, and the taller man pads across the floor towards the hall. 

“Indrid?”

“Yes, Mr. Newton?” 

“Good work today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And, uh, and you don't, uh, don’t gotta call me sir or mister no more. Makes my goddamn skin crawl when people call me that.”

A weak, tired laugh, “I can’t say I am surprised. Good night, Duck.”

“Night.”

He waits for the click of the shutting door before hoisting Winnie so she’s staring down at him with wide, yellow eyes. 

“What the fuck am I gonna do?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything hurts. 

Indrid is not weak, but he hasn’t done manual labor since he was a boy helping his parents plant crops. His back and shoulders ache, he’s cold, he has blisters (in spite of the gloves Duck lent him), and the man he loves believes, for very good reasons, that Indrid used him and was dishonest with him. 

It’s not the silence, not the gruffness that hurts him. It’s watching familiar affection kindle in Duck’s face and then be quickly and deliberately snuffed out.

The second day does bring the luck of Barclay, Jake, and Stern having moved his belongings into his room in the cottage. He’s unpacking, wrapped in the Banyan he dug out of his trunk, when Stern’s voice catches his attention.

“Duck, there’s something I need to tell you. Indrid was lying.”

“No shit.” They must be in the kitchen, Duck shutting a cabinet as Stern continues. 

“No, I mean about his feelings for me.”

“Why are you tryin’ to help him? He nearly ruined things for all of you.”

“On the contrary, he kept everyone from disaster. For starters, already know he was lying about where those flowers came from, because you helped _me_ acquire them.”

“Figured he was just coverin’ for you. Or maybe you’d changed your mind about him and he was tryin’ to get back into your good graces by takin’ the blame.”

“Not even close.” A sigh, then, “Duck, I’m going to tell you something only Indrid knows; those flowers were for Barclay. Not him. Barclay is the man I'm in love with.”

“Holy fuck. Dani was right.”

“Oh lord, has she caught on too? This is getting-- it doesn’t matter right now. Right now, I’m keeping my word to Indrid that I’d explain things to you. I’m not sure how those flowers got to him, but I suspect it was an honest accident.”

“Huh.”

Duck doesn’t say much more. In place of the relief he’s expecting, Indrid only feels more frustration and hurt bubbling up in his chest. 

He’s finishing up his folding when the door creaks open.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“The entirety.” He turns, finds Duck thoroughly chagrined in the doorway. 

“I, uh, I guess I owe you an apology.”

“Yes.”

“Indrid I’m...I’m real fuckin sorry. I acted like an absolute ass, and I see now you were only tryin’ to keep Woodbridge from sendin’ half my friends away and makin’ the other half miserable." Duck scratches the back of his neck, strands of dark hair falling across his face.

“Apology accepted. Pity it took the words of someone other than myself to make you believe me.” He slams the wardrobe harder than intended. 

“What the fuck-”

“I told you in that first argument that it was a mistake, that I only cared for you. I begged you to listen to me, to believe me, and you would not. So forgive me for not being overjoyed at you trusting someone else but not me to be truthful.”

“Now hold up, think about it from my perspective.”

“I have! Why do you think I have not pressed the issue since my demotion? I knew you were hurt, even if I also knew the hurt was based on faulty conclusions, and I did not wish to dig myself deeper into your disdain. I was trying to help. I only wanted, I wanted..” he turns away from those mis-matched eyes, shining with too many emotions to name, “I wanted you to believe me. I knew you would not. It seems I have not lost my knack for predictions in that regard.”

“Indrid-”

“The only thing I cannot understand is why you intervened on my behalf with Woodbridge. Was it to shame me? To keep me somewhere you could remind of my failings? To make me work for your forgiveness?”

“You really think I’m that fuckin’ cruel?” Duck’s hackles raise. 

“That is not an answer.”

“I suggested this because I didn’t want you to be fuckin penniless in the gutter! I didn’t want your folks sufferin because you’d fucked up, or you were pretendin to. And, and I did it because I still fuckin care about you! Even when I was angry, even when I was hurtin, I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. Missin’ you.”

“Care without trust is a useless thing, Duck Newton.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I am not sure I accept your apology.”

“Do you want me to fuckin’ grovel or some shit?”

“I want you to trust me. I want to know you will not jump to disbelieve me the moment something seems wrong.” 

“Fuck, fuck me for havin’ insecurities, I guess.” Duck crosses his arms.

“That is not what I meant. I...I have only every been trusted with securing material gain for people. I thought someone might actually trust me with their heart. Now I see maybe you were not ready to, and I rushed my conclusions. Or maybe I am not worthy of such a thing.”

He watches the anger drain from Duck’s face. The hurt remains, but something gentler alights atop it.

“Indrid, you’re worthy of that.”

“There is little to suggest so at the moment.”

“I mean it. Why won’t you believe me?”

As soon as the words are out, Duck chuckles bitterly, “Point taken.”

“Had I been making that point deliberately, I would find that grimly satisfying.”

The fight is gone from them both; he sees it in Duck’s eyes, feels it in his bones.

“What do we do now?”

“I do not know. I am going to bed. Lack of sleep will not help this situation.”

“Yeah.” Duck backs out the door, puts his hand on the nob, “Indrid? I really like workin’ with you. It’s nice havin’ you out there with me again, and it’s kinda fun, gettin to teach you. I like sharin’ the things I love with you.”

Indrid stares at the floorboards, “Go to bed, Duck.”

The door shuts, and he moves mechanically through the motions of his nighttime routine. It’s only when he lifts his sketchbook to set it on the table that he finds the painting of the Deaths-Head Moth. 

Clutching it, he sinks down onto the bed, forehead pressing into the frame as he takes ragged breaths, biting his tongue to keep from calling out to Duck. 

Everything hurts.


	10. Weeds and Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid weeds. Duck questions. Aubrey searches

The morning brings stiff limbs, a raw spot on his heel, and no clarity on how to proceed with Duck. He’s so tired of the painful, awkward tension between them. He wants to snap it between his hands. He wants Duck to make everything alright with a word, even though he knows it will take much more than that.

“You ready to talk?” Duck asks softly as Indrid stirs his tea at the breakfast table. 

“No.”

Duck stares down at his coffee, “Okay. You just say the word when you are.”

“That may take some time.”

Duck reaches for him across the table, stops, sets his hands on his mug, “S’alright. Already fucked up bein’ patient for you once; ain’t gonna fuck it up again.”

It shouldn't hurt so much, that gentle promise.

The day’s work brings even more bad luck: weeding. Acres and acres of weeding. 

“It’s ‘cause of the rain. It’s makin ‘em grown wild. I don’t mind some of ‘em. Dandelions got their uses, some thistles do too. But this” he gestures to the green and yellow choking the strawberries and herbs, “this ain’t sustainable. Got your gloves?”

Indrid holds up his be-gloved hands. 

“Good. I’ll start here, you start there, and we’ll work our way in.”

Indrid’s knees sink in the muddy ground as he yanks and digs and tosses weeds into the wheelbarrow nearby. And hour later, he's certain he's make excellent progress. He looks up to discover that he has only cleared a small patch of the field. 

He drops his head forward with a groan. That settles it, they will be here forever, he lives in this blasted field now. 

“Hey, Indrid, wanna hear a puzzle?”

Indrid glances over at Duck, “Sure.”

“A girl has as many brothers as sisters, but each brother has only half as many brothers as sisters. How many brothers and sisters are there in the family?”

Indrid runs the numbers quickly over his head as he pries a thistle from the ground.

“Four sisters and three brothers.” 

“Damn, you were fast. Want another?”

“Why not?” Indrid shrugs; it’s better than silence.

“This belongs to you, but everyone else uses it.

Indrid makes it through another clump of weeds, “My name.”

“Yep. Not bad. For an amateur.” Duck says the last bit pointedly. 

“Is someone feeling threatened in his riddle prowess?” Indrid teases, tossing a weed over his shoulder.

“Nope. I got a whole bunch of these, learned ‘em to use on Jane when she was bored. Gonna stump you yet.”

Indrid grins at him, shaking mist from his glasses, “We shall see.”

Duck does indeed have an endless supply of riddles and puzzles, and Indrid solves each one. With every correct answer the playful challenge in Duck’s voice increases, and Indrid even laughs at the look of impressed consternation on his face when he solves ones Duck insists are impossible. Then Duck laughs along with him and he forgets the damp in his hair and the chill on his skin.

“What part of a fish weighs most?”

Indrid thinks. And thinks. And cannot figure out the angle to approach the solution. 

“I do not know.”

“The scales!”

“........That is not a riddle. It is a joke, and a poor one at that.”

“Aw, someone feelin’ threatened in his riddle prowess?”

“No. I demand a redo, I will not lose my title on such a silly play on words.” Indrid tosses his head with mock haughtiness. 

Duck, now quivering with laughter, shakes his head, “no can do.”

“Oh, you will do.” Indrid lunges at him and Duck scrambles back, still laughing. 

“Nope!”

“Cease your mockery, ruffian!” Indrid grabs him just as he pulls away, meaning Duck falls back and Indrid lands atop him.

“Call me a ruffian all you want, still damn proud of that one.” Duck grins shamelessly up at him, “know what else I’m proud of? Look at the field.”

Sitting up, Indrid discovers that the entire, massive patch of ground is now free of weeds.

“Grunt work goes easier when the two of us talk. Learned that when we first became friends.”

“You are remarkably clever.” Indrid wipes the mud from Duck’s shoulder only for it to smear on his hand and the gardener's sleeve.

“Got my moments. Gah, christ almighty how come you keep fallin’ on me?”

“You have very poor timing?” 

“Or you just like bein’ on top of me.”

Indrid freezes and Duck clears his throat, “Sorry. Uh, old habit I guess.”

“It’s alright.” Indrid says flatly, the flirtation jarring him back to the reality of their situation. He stands, helping Duck up, and returns to the wheelbarrow, “we should get this to the rubbish pile.”

Duck grabs the other wheelbarrow. As they walk, Indrid turns. He’s not ready to let Duck in. He’s not ready for another attempted apology, a conversation in which all his hurts are prodded one by one. 

But he is ready to admit something.

“You know, Duck, you were right.” He gives a slight smile, “it is nice, sharing the things you love with you.”

\---------------------------

Duck will wait until new years, until he’s one hundred, until it’s judgement day. He will wait as long as he has to for Indrid to be ready to sort things out. 

He’s glad Indrid will speak to him in his normal tone, will smile at him or laugh at his bad jokes. But he aches every time he remembers the feel of him in his arms, his heartbeat in his ear as they lay together in the dark. He has no one to blame but himself for it’s loss, and he longs to reach into the past, to Duck from a week ago and shake some sense into him. His mind runs wild with all the things he would do differently.

Which is why he’s not asleep when Beacon starts howling. Not that this makes the noise any less jarring. 

He tromps down the stairs and out the bark door. The dog continues wailing at the rainy sky from the safety of his covered kennel. The wind howls back, driving the unseasonable cold under Duck’s skin.

“Only you’d try to argue with the goddamn wind.” He mutters at the dog, patting his ears and earning begrudging tail wag in return.

Heading back inside, he sees something he missed going down the stairs; Indrid, sitting by the dying fire, blanket draped around him. 

“Beacon wake you up too?”

“No. The wind made it hard to sleep, and it seems colder tonight than the last few days.”

“Yeah. I ain’t been able to sleep either.”

“Would you like to keep me company? It is Saturday, after all. We can claim tomorrow is a day of rest.”

“Sure.” He spies Indrid sketching, and so retrieves a book from his shelf. He’s on a path towards the chair when Indrid lifts the blanket. He takes the invitation, settles beside him on the couch, Winnie emerging from her favorite hiding place to join them. 

It should be impossible to feel the change in the silence, feel Indrid shift infinitesimally towards rather than away from him. 

“You said you were insecure. A few days ago. What did you mean?”

Duck turns the book over in his hands, focusing on the weight of it, “I...I had some bad luck in the past. Fellas who swore up one side and down the other that I was the one for them, that they wanted to stay. And the someone else would come along; better lookin, more exciting, what have you, and off they’d go. Once had someone tell me I was too damn reliable to be a good husband.”

“What in the world does that mean?”

“No idea. All that happened before I left America. When I came here, well, ain’t many people who visit here and there ain’t many folks who caught my eye in town. Not to mention plenty of eligible men see me as below 'em for the work I do. So I got used to the bachelor life. Then along you come, makin’ me feel special, talkin to me like you saw yourself stayin with me a long time. When I...when I thought you were wooin’ Stern too, all those memories came back. All I could think about was protectin myself from that hurt again. I put the patterns of the past onto you, rather than actually listenin to you."

Indrid draws a long curve before replying, “That helps me understand a great deal. I do wish you would have listened to me but, well, I begin to see you were more hurt than cruel.”

“Was a little of both. And I’m sorry. I, I don't really got much more than that. I fucked up, I hurt you, and I gotta live with that so I'll just...I'll just say I'm sorry again, Indrid, so fuckin sorry."

Indrid takes his hand, squeezes it once, tenderly, “I accept your apology. I am not quite ready for more beyond that. I need to know that you trust me, and that I can trust you.”

“This is more’n enough for me.” He smiles and Indrid returns the expression before continuing his drawing. Gradually, he leans more and more of his weight against Duck, and when Duck looks up to ask if he needs to move to bed the other man is asleep on his shoulder. 

He’ll just read a few more pages and then get them both to their rooms. 

The call of wrens and robins, half-drowned out by the storm, wake him the next morning. Indrid is sprawled on top of him, still asleep, face peaceful and perfect in the grey light of morning. 

Carefully, Duck slips from the couch long enough to start the fire, gather a second blanket, and set Indrid’s glasses aside. Then he lays back down, gathering him into his arms.

“Duck?” It’s mumbled into his chest, Indrid nuzzling closer.

“Yep.”

“Oh good. Don’ go.”

He rubs Indrid’s side soothingly, “Don’t worry, darlin. I’m stayin right here.”

\--------------------------------------------------

“Ughhhhhhh why does this house have so many closets” Aubrey, on her hands and knees, peers into the empty closet in one of the five bedrooms in the west wing.

“I think it’s a rich people thing. At least the view is nice.”

“What do you meEEp!” She wants her hand backwards when Dani pinches her butt, giggling.

“Alright you two, save that for after dark.” Mama comes in from the washroom, shaking her head, “found fuck all in there. Any luck.”

“Nope!” Aubrey calls from the corner of the closet as Dani shakes her head.

“We’re halfway through, be ready to give up except that still leaves us a lotta space to search.”

“We still don’t know how we’re going to get into Woodbridges room and his study.”

“I doubt my mother would have hidden it there.” Aubrey dusts herself off as she joins them. 

“Gettin fancy to go searchin’?”

“Huh? Oh, this?” Aubrey points to her red dress and her mother’s opal necklace, “just what was closest this morning.”

(It’s also Dani’s favorite outfit on her, but Mama doesn’t need to know that).

“Whatever you say, Aubrey. My vote is we meet Barclay in the kitchen for a plannin session and some lunch."

“I hope Duck and Indrid are having better luck than we are.” Dani whispers as they cross the hall.

“Doubt it; place is so damn sprawling that if that will is hidden on the grounds, we ain’t ever gonna find it.”

\--------------------------------------

Their search of the greenhouse is efficient, but so far not fruitful. They take turns doing their normal work near the windows (and thus also keep watch) while the other searches each crevice, hole, and loose stone for any sign of the will or a clue to its whereabouts.

Duck is on watch when Woodbridge approaches, and he bangs his trowel twice, quickly, to signal the interloper's presence.

“Mornin’, Mr. Woodbridge. Need somethin’?”

“I’d like to speak with you outside, Duck.” 

Once they’re clear of the doors, Woodbridge produces a folded paper from his breast pocket. 

“I take it Indrid has been doing as you ask of him?"

“Yep. Needs help now and then, but he’s as good an assistant as any."

“I thought you might say that. Which is why I wanted to show you this.” He hands Duck the paper, “I found it when we were clearing out his room.”

It’s a letter from Indrid to his family, describing his time so far at Sylvain Hall. In the second paragraph, Duck find his name.

_The gardener, Duck, is decent enough company when no other is available. But he is uncouth and dull compared to the occupants of the hall. His manners leave much to be desired and he can be a nuisance to my work._

“If this changes your desire for his assistance, send word and I will deal with the situation.”

“Understood, sir.” Duck frowns, watches Woodbridge return to the house. 

Indrid is right where he left him, trying to coax some of the exotic ferns to perk up. 

“You write this?” He holds out the paper and Indrid loses all color as he reads.

“No. No, I did no such thing. For starters, I do not write to my parents in English. But more to the point, I would never have said such a thing about you.” Indrid is still on his knees, and when he looks up apprehension lines every inch of his face. 

“That’s what I thought.” Duck takes the letter and rips it in half, “Won’t say I didn’t have a moment of fearin’ it was real, but I’ll take your word over his any day. Christ, he must madder at you than we thought.”

“If he thinks I jeopardized the wedding, I functionally jeopardized his ongoing control of the family fortune. And he perceives you as my last ally which, while untrue, means he hoped turning you against me would give him cause to send me away permanently.”

“Well, he can fuck right off with that. I like havin’ a partner, and I ain’t about to lose you.”

Indrid blushes as Duck offers him a hand up, “I am glad you put your faith in me this time. I, ah, would you like to know what I did write home about?”

“Course.” 

“I told them you were the most fascinating man I knew, and that my happiest moments here were spent in your company.” He grabs a spade, smirking now that it’s Duck’s turn to blush, “had I known it would put such a pleasing tint on your cheeks, I would have included many more of my thoughts about you.”

It’s the first time Indrid’s flirted with him since their fight, and Duck is not about to let a chance to fluster him like old times pass by.

The taller man is digging new holes in raised planters. Duck peers over his shoulder as if examining his work.

“Don’t be afraid to really thrust in there; gotta go hard if you want to keep it up.”

Indrid says nothing, but he arches an eyebrow in Duck’s direction. Duck gives his best, innocent smile, hums as he sets about working next to him. When Indrid moves on to trimming some of the shrubs, Duck casually adds, “Always do like it when you put your hands in my plants.”

There’s an emphatic _snip_ followed by Indrid muttering “drat” at the rather large gap he just created by cutting too close to the center. 

As he's returning the shears to their post, Indrid brushes past him. Slender fingers ghost his ass as he hears, “you remind me of a flower, as I would dearly like to pluck you.” Then he pauses, lifting one of the smaller potted ferns in his hand, “and I am very frond of you.”

Duck boxes him in against the workbench, “Are you a garden stake? Because I wanna ram you into the ground.” He growls the last few words and Indrid inhales sharply, rolling his hips when Duck presses closer. 

“That can be arranged.” Indrid purrs, kissing his cheek.

“In that case, darlin” Duck nips his ear, “let’s see you on your knees.”


	11. Wants & Warnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid gets red. Duck moves a fern. Barclay explains.

As Indrid falls to the ground, Duck drags the closest tall plant over to his left side, covering them both from view of the door. On his knees, Indrid is hidden by the workbench, and Duck is able to keep one eye through the glass to be sure they aren’t about to be interrupted. 

“Hand me your glasses.” 

Indrid removes the red spectacles so Duck can set them safely on the table. 

“Now, since you’re my assistant, you’re gonna, uh, assist me with a little problem.” The layers of clothing can’t part fast enough, and he grumbles when he tries to pull his pants down without undoing the suspenders. 

Indrid chuckles “If you want me to undress you-”

“Hush. Fuckin’, there we go.” He gets them down far enough to give Indrid access. 

“I been half-hard since you started flirtin’-”

“I maintain you started it.”

Duck fists a hand into his hair, “That don’t matter. What matters is all I can think about is gettin my cock into you one way or another. So you’re gonna open your mouth and let me fuck it as hard as I please.”

“ _Yes_ ” Indrid grips Duck’s ass hungrily, kissing the exposed patch of his belly. 

“You like that, darlin? Like it when I’m rough?”

“So very much _ah_!” Indrid hisses as Duck yanks his head forward, forcing his mouth against him. Indrid wastes no time, works his tongue in languid curves and rapid lines across his folds. 

“That’s it, get me good’n slick, wanna make such a mess of you.”

Indrid flicks his tongue along his dick, once and feather-light, and he bucks his hips forward, craving more. 

“Uh uh, no teasin’ from you today.” He twists his fingers in pale hair, gets happy hum that sends electric bliss down his limbs, “suck.”

Another light lick, Indrid glancing up at him with lustful mirth.

“I said _suck_.”

An even quicker lick this time. Duck reaches his free hand down, gripping Indrid’s chin, digging fingers into his cheeks to force his lips apart. Tugging his hair and guiding his face where he wants it triggers a breathy moan and Indrid clawing at the backs of his thighs. When his lips finally close around Duck’s cock, the sucking and licking is so intensely eager that he thwacks his hand on the workbench to steady himself. 

“There, that ain’t so hard now is it, fuck, fuck, darlin.” Indrid is practically hugging him now as he sucks him off, muffled moans setting off something deep in Duck’s core. He jerks his hips a few times, testing to see if Indrid likes it; the now-frantic sucking suggests he does. More and more of his weight braces on his arm as he hunches forward, rutting aggressively into Indrid’s mouth, dragging slick across his lips and chin. 

“C’mon, _c’mon_ , fuck, Indrid, you’re mine, all fuckin’ mine, gonna make goddamn sure you know it, gonna make sure you remember, fuck, where you fuckin’ belong, right here, with, fuck, with me, suckin’ me off like it’s your fuckin’ job, fuck, _shit_ , Indrid, do that again, yeah, _yes_ , ohfuckyes.” He comes with a jolt, thrusting so hard that the back of his hand slams into the side of the workbench, Indrid gasping in surprise as his head goes with it. The orgasm courses through him slowly, as if understanding his need to stay within and around those parted lips for as long as he can. 

When Duck releases his hair, Indrid tips forward, resting his cheek on his hip as he pants and wipes his face messily across his sleeve. 

“Christ I needed that.” Duck steps back, Indrid tilting to stay connected to him. 

“I am glad. Goodness, I have always liked doing that but with you...well, it is simply transcendent.”

“Can do it whenever you like. But right now we got somethin’ else to do.” He points to Indrid’s hand, absentmindedly rubbing at his clothed cock. 

“That strikes me as riskier to do here.”

“You’re right. Which is why we ain’t doin it here; c’mon, let’s go home.” He takes Indrid’s hands, pulling him up and into a kiss, growling possessively when he tastes himself on Indrid’s lips. 

“Don’t we have much more to do?”

“I’m head gardener, darlin’, so I decide what we do. And right now, only thing I wanna do-”

“Is me.”

“Hey, no fair stealin my joke.”

“Apologies.” Indrid smirks unapologetically. 

“No need.” Duck kisses his cheek, “got plenty of ways to get you back.”

\-----------------------------

Indrid is only down to his undershirt and trousers when Duck, dressed much the same, beckons him over to the bed. His dark hair is damp from the rain they dashed through to get here, and Indrid kisses stray raindrops from his cheeks as he cozies up next to him. 

“You want me to keep bein’ rough?” Duck strokes his brow.

“Yes, if you also enjoy it.”

“Sure as hell do. Lay across my lap, on your belly.”

“Is this what you meant by getting me baACK!” He yelps as Duck slaps his hand across his ass. It startles him more than anything else, his skin hardly registering it through his clothes. Duck does it twice more in rapid sequence and Indrid gasps, then moans into the sheets. 

“That was for stealin’ my joke. Ain't gonna give you too many for it on account of I’m proud my sense of humor is rubbin off on you.”

The next smack is harder, “that’s for trimmin’ that shrub wrong.”

“You distracted me with your innuendoOHsssss.” Indrid wriggles his hips as the strikes alternate between his ass and his thighs. 

“That was for talkin’ back.” Duck’s voice is going huskier by the moment and Indrid adores it. 

“Do you intend to AH punish me for every error I have made as your assistant? Because we AHnnn may be here awhile.”

“Naw” Duck’s palm smooths soothingly across his ass, “ain’t gonna punish you for makin’ mistakes in a job you had fuck-all trainin’ for. You done a damn good job, all things considered.” The hand slows, Duck’s thumb kneading at the muscles through the fabric, “but I get the sense you ain’t ready to be done with this.”

“No, I, I like this very much.”

The massage continues “Hmmmm. Recall you sayin’ you liked suckin’ cock an awful lot. But you also said you didn’t give into your, uh, ‘base desires’ often.”

“I did not. But when I did, I often went to gentlemen’s clubs. The money from my work allowed me to buy my way in, and there are few creatures in this world less discerning in choosing a partner than a wealthy gentleman who’s in a celebratory mood.”

“ _That’s_ what goes on in those places?”

“In the ones I went to, at least. And not exclusively. I also learned to play chess in one.”

“Huh” a fond squeeze to both sides of his ass, “how many fellas you let cum in your mouth?”

“Ah” his cheeks heat from the memory and the sweet shame of saying it aloud, “perhaps twenty? I did not keep a precise coOWnt.” He arches from the sudden blow. 

“Well then, seems like I oughta punish you for not predictin' your mouth’d one day belong to me.”

“I would say that was the most arbitrary comment I have received about my predictions but well, you know WoodbridgeOUCH!” He squeaks at the slap, the hardest one yet.

“Don’t mention him when we’re fuckin.”

Indrid chuckles, “I do not intend to.”

“Gonna give you two blows per fella. Think you can handle it?”

“Oh yes.” Indrid grips the blankets, wriggling with anticipation.

“Was that last hit okay? Or do you need me to go a little softer?”

“That was as hard as I can take.”

“Good.”

“AH!”

“Careful darlin; holler like that on each one, won’t have a voice left by the time I’m done with you.”

“Nnnnh!” Indrid clenches his teeth on the second strike. Each successive blow tosses fuel onto the fire in his core, his skin buzzing with pain that turns to pleasure as it races across his nerves. He loses count around the twenty-fifth strike, and his cock has been aching for contact with something, anything, since the tenth. 

Duck switches between rapid swats and ones that have an eternity between them. Sometimes he’ll feint, let Indrid feel his body move as if to strike but pull back at the last moment, just so he can laugh, low and teasing, when Indrid tenses. It’s only when he relaxes that Duck brings his palm down all the way. It’s on one of these that Indrid is pushed forward the inch needed for his cock to find Duck’s thigh. 

The contact is the last ingredient in the cocktail of want churning in his chest; euphoria foams up and pours through him, his voice cracked and needy as he begs Duck for more even as tears of pain sting his eyes and his cock drags in animalistic, ragged bursts on his thigh.

“God _damn_ , lookit you, little rough handlin and you turn into the most wanton man on the continent. Half a mind to keep doin’ this til you cum.”

“ _Please_ ” he sobs happily, “please, Duck, yes, more, gracious I, I am close.”

“Told you I’d make a mess of you. C’mon darlin, cum for me like this, get off rubbin’ on me like the filthy thing you are.” Duck seems to have lost count as well, palm thwacking down on Indrid’s ass over and over again, giving him no chance to recover from the sting.

“YesYESyes, Duck, love, ahhhhnAH, oh god, oh Duck _Duck_!” Cum spills down his leg and stains the front of his pants as he writhes, his nerves so alight with sharp, unrelenting pleasure that he fears he may lose consciousness. 

As it is, the world grows fuzzy at the edges for a few moments, and then Duck’s face comes into focus above him as warm fingers undo the buttons on his pants. 

“Why?” He doesn’t even know what the query relates to.

“Just gettin you outta these so I can clean you a bit. Don’t go nowhere.”

A comforting weight leaves the bed, and Indrid lets out needful whines until it returns. 

Duck cleans him with one hand, cups his cheek with the other and Indrid takes it, preparing to kiss the palm.

“Oh, oh goodness my sweet, your hand is all red.”

“Don’t worry, barely even stings.”

“Here, I shall make it better.” Indrid presses kiss after soft kiss to the calloused skin as Duck chuckles.

“Think you ass is probably far worse off.”

“I regret nothing.” Indrid rolls onto his side as Duck lays down, then winces, “alright, perhaps I slightly regret the fact sitting down may be difficult tomorrow, but it remains worth it.”

“Glad you liked it.” Duck opens his arms and Indrid collapses into them with a sigh. They lay there for what’s either an hour or a minute before Duck sits up, doffing his shirt and grabbing a blanket to pull across them.

“Duck? When, ah, when the weather is better, would you like to travel back home with me?”

“Yeah, I really would.” Mis-matched eyes brim with hope, “does, uh, does this mean things are all the way okay between us again?”

Indrid kisses each cheek, then each eyebrow, before kissing him sweetly on the lips.

“Yes, my love, it does.”

Nothing Indrid has ever seen, nor imagined, rivals the beauty of Duck’s face when it lights up with joy as he whispers, “Thank fuckin’ god.”

\---------------------------------------------

Barclay scrubs out the teakettle, half singing and half humming as the last of the summer light dies out behind the curtain of grey clouds. His heart is warmer than a beach in August, the conversation last night playing over and over in his head. 

_“I ought to have done this sooner, the heft is wonderful”_

_“Guhnnff.” Is all he manages as Joseph continues jacking him off with one hand as he reviews his notes with the other._

_“We should experiment sometime, to see how many times I can get you to climax like this in one night.”_

_“Yes, sir, ohfuckyes.” His wrists fight against the silk of the scarf tied around them as his orgasm wells up in his gut._

_“I’ll save it for a day you’ve been especially good--oh lord” Joseph splutters as cum spurts up the front of his shirt, Barclay fighting to stay quiet as he convulses._

_When he’s cleaned and tidied, tea within reach as Joseph holds him and pets his hair, the other man whispers something that surprises him._

_“When everything is solved and we’ve managed to stop the unwanted marriages...would you like to continue this, even if I have to go back to London?”_

_“God yes.” He turns, finds blue eyes gazing earnestly down at him._

_“And if I were to buy a house in town, so you could still work here if you wanted to...would you stay with me?”_

_Barclay kisses his neck, “Forever, if you’d let me.”_

_“I would. I will.”_

The door between the house and the kitchen opens and he turns to ask Vincent if any of the guests will be needing tea or coffee. With the exception of Joseph, of course. Barclay will have his tea ready much later in the evening. 

Hayes is standing, arms crossed and mouth in a triumphant line.

“Evening, sir. Do you need something?” Barclay bows, heart a banging like a mallet in his chest. 

“I do. I need you to tell me why there’s a warrant for your arrest in the state of Virginia.”

The world narrows down to those words, to the memories they bring, the fear a rushing tunnel on either side of his vision. 

“How did you find out about that?”

“I made some inquiries after Woodbridge mentioned you would comply with his demand that you marry Dani because you knew he could send you back to America. It seemed an oddly dire threat.”

“I...I was young.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Yeah, actually, it was.” He sighs, “My mother moved us to Virginia after my father died. She got sick when I was thirteen. We had no money, any job I found wasn’t enough to pay the doctor. So I...I took up with some not so great people.”

“No wonder you left when Mrs. Cobb helped you find work here.”

“I never hurt anybody.” Barclay adds hurriedly as he looks up, “I’d help them steal stuff, break open doors or keep watch, things like that. But as I got older, they wanted to do more. Wanted to start kidnapping, or killing if people didn’t pay up fast rather than giving up and picking a new target. I left.”

“A likely story.”

“It’s the truth. But they didn’t want me to leave and then, well, then I ended up giving evidence when they kidnapped someone. They swore they’d make me pay. I came to England shortly after.”

Hayes crosses the floor, leans across the table that Barclay keeps between them, “Listen closely; I saw you leaving the upper floor two nights ago. Very, very late. I don’t think I need to tell you whose room you were coming out of.”

“I was just-”

“I don't care about whatever excuse you have. Honestly, I’d barely care that my son seems interested in fooling around with you, except that there are far larger things at stake. If you wish to see him, I cannot fully stop you. But if I get even the slightest suspicion that this wedding is about to fall through because he’s gotten it into his head that he wants to be with you, I’ll ensure that Woodbridge turns your employment over to someone in Virginia. Understood?”

“Understood. Are, that is, are you going to tell J-, your son about this?”

“I may, if it seems necessary. Goodnight, Barclay.”

“Good, goodnight, sir.”

Once Hayes is gone he sinks to the floor, shaking. If he goes back...if he goes back they might find him. Worse, he’ll never see Joseph again. 

He has to tell him that they need to wait, need to keep their distance from each other until Aubrey finds that will. He can make up a cover story, and by the time he wills his knees to work and makes his way up the darkened stairs, he has several ready to go.

Joseph isn’t in his room. 

Barclay hurries back down, decides to grab a candle from his own small quarters. 

When he opens the door, Joseph is waiting for him on the bed, fully clothed and looking as stern as can be.

“Well, Barclay, it seems like you and I need to have a talk.”


	12. Explanations & Engagements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern confides. Barclay confesses. Duck sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: It's mentioned that Stern's mother has a mental illness, and that the family is being blackmailed with threats of her being forcibly institutionalized.

“My hand was on the back kitchen door just as my father started talking.” Stern’s eyes stay fixed on Barclay as the cook shuts the door and slumps against it. 

“You heard everything.” His heart sinks into the earth, and he knows he will bury it before the end of the day.

“Yes. Barclay, why didn’t you tell me the truth about leaving America?” 

“Because, because of this exact conversation! I can’t, I couldn’t face the idea of you seeing me as no more than a common criminal, as someone shameful and bad. I couldn’t handle the idea of you being angry with me, or, or repulsed.” He stares at his fingers, knotting them together to give his mind something to focus besides the fear in his gut.

“Barclay, look at me.” The barest hint of comforting dominance in the tone.

Barclay looks up.

“Do I look angry?”

“No. But you don’t exactly look happy.”

“I’m mostly disappointed. In myself, for making you think mistakes in your past would dull my affection for you. And, um, maybe a little angry that you didn’t tell me something that could seriously increase the risk of you being sent away from me forever.”

“I...well, uh, look, you’re kinda a law and order type of guy. I figured you found out, you’d write me off.”

“While I do like to think of myself as law-abiding and orderly, I’m under no illusion that laws, or the world, are as just as some like to pretend. From the sound of it, your motives were good.”

“That doesn’t exactly excuse something.”

“No, but it deserves to be taken into account.” He uncrosses his arms, cards his fingers through his hair, “at any rate, it also doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t tell my father everything.”

“How-”

“He hasn’t spent even a fraction of the time with you that I have; I know when you’re leaving things out.”

Barclay nods, and Joseph holds out his hand. He crawls forward to take it, lets the other man guide him up onto the bed. 

“I tried to make your father believe that I only stayed with the gang to support my mother. My mother died less than a year after I joined them. I only had myself to look after, and I could have left. But I, I stayed on with them because it was nice to have money and protection for once, even if I grew more uncomfortable with our work with passing each day. Mama even gave me a job at the Lodge, but still I stayed. I only left when they started really hurting people. When the first kidnapping happened and I went to the police, they promised they’d protect me from retribution and erase the warrant they had for me. They did neither. If I go back, it’s a toss up whether the police would get me or the remaining members of that gang would. Mama only just managed to get me out in time.”

“I see why you took her name.”

“Yeah.” Barclay plucks aimlessly at the bedspread, “so, uh, what, what happens now.”

Joseph takes a deep breath, sorrow lining his face, “Now? Now I tell you what I’ve been concealing.”

Barclay runs through every possible worst-case scenario in the time it takes Joseph to say, “What do know about my family?”

“Only, uh, only what you’ve told me. Your father was in the guard before going into the printing business and making a ton of money, and you have a sister who’s at home with your ill mother.”

“That’s all true. But it also omits a lot. My mother is ill, yes, but not physically. It’s her, her mind. My father said there was a hint of it for many years, but last year it intensified. She, she hears things that aren’t there, believes things that cannot be true. More and more she struggles with daily tasks, and when I think back on my childhood, I realize our nursemaid did a great deal more than normal to raise us and help with the house; no one wonder our mother was so fond of her. Not that she neglected us; she just needed help."

Barclay sees shame flicker at the corner of those blue eyes. Gently, he cups Josephs right hand between both of his own. 

“I’m sorry. That sounds hard for you, and even harder for her.”

“It is. She’s a wonderful woman, Barclay, and I think she’d adore you. She can be incredibly funny, she and I can talk for hours, and she has days where it all seems like it’s gone. Then it comes back. That’s why we’re here.”

“You...you think Woodbridge can help?”

“We think the family fortune can. The Sterns are, um, no longer moneyed.”

“Your father makes it sound like you are. I mean, shit, so do you.”

“All part of the ruse.” Joseph smiles ruefully, “our money is long gone.”

“From caring for you mother?”

“Yes and no. My father made enemies in his time as a royal guard. Most of them with legitimate grievances.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“One of them sent a spy in among the nurses who would visit my mother when her illness was at it’s worst. When they learned of her condition, they made their demands plain: we were to pay a large sum for their silence. Or they would use all their influence, all their trickery, all their resources, to insure my mother was taken from our care and placed-” Joseph covers his mouth, breath shaky, “placed in bedlam.”

“Oh, oh Joseph.” Barclay is frozen, not sure what to do in the face of something so vile.

“We had no choice. We paid. And paid. And paid. And when the money began drying up, we were told we’d better find a new source of it quickly, as they had no intent of ending the blackmail. Marrying well seemed the best option. My sister has been engaged to very kind young man, an architect, but his wages will not be enough to support her and protect our mother, though he has offered to try. So it fell to me to find someone to marry, and fast. It made sense from a strategic standpoint; many marriages in our circles are for convenience or security.”

“No wonder Woodbridge decided so fast that you and Aubrey were getting married; your father must have really pushed the idea.”

“I don't doubt it. And for a time it seemed like the best outcome for everyone; Aubrey got a husband who wouldn’t try to control her or her fortune, I got a wife who didn’t mind if I pursued men, and we secured the money to protect my mother indefinitely. But then, well…” he looks at Barclay, eyes shining with a mixture of love and misery, “I met you. And each day we’re together I only fall deeper in love, and we tread all the closer to you being sent away for threatening the marriage.”

“You think he’d make good on his threat?” Barclay glances down to where Josephs nails dig into his palm.

“Undoubtedly. My father is a ruthless and generally not very good man. But he loves my mother more than anything on earth, and if he thinks you’re jeopardizing our chances of protecting her, he’ll do whatever he can to get rid of you.”

“Fuck.”

Joseph cups his cheek for a moment, “For a time I thought we could simply wait it out, spend our nights together even after the weddings, until Aubrey comes of age. Given our current luck, I don’t think that’s wise. And what’s more, we received notice that the blackmailers are asking for even more in the coming months; any remaining patience my father might have had for, um, extramarital dalliances was dashed to bits by that news. He’ll watch us every moment, and quite possibly bribe or threaten someone to do it in his stead once he leaves. The sharks are at our door, and so he will turn merciless to protect us.” He rubs his forehead, brow creased and tired. 

“Then I guess we wait. As long as it fucking takes for me and for your mother to be out of harms way. I, uh, I fucking hate the thought of not being with you, of being near you everyday but not able to touch you. But I love you more than I hate any of that.”

“That’s our last resort. We can still help Aubrey find that will. We _have_ to.” He turns, one hand brushing Barclay’s hair from his face as the other rests their joined hands against Joseph’s heart, “Because even if I could survive the years it took for Aubrey to gain control of the estate without you, I don’t want to. In fact, even my initial plan to continue our meetings in private after the wedding is distasteful to me. Because I don’t want you to be a secret, a shape I steal kisses from in the dark of night. I want you by my side, as my husband, for all the world to see.”

“Joseph” The whisper passes between them as Barclay dips down to kiss him, savors the taste of mouth, commits it to memory in case this is the last time.

“We’ll find a way, Joseph. I promise.” Barclay rests their foreheads together, voice catching in his throat, “Between us and our friends, we can figure something out.”

“We have to.” Joseph repeats, voice low and determined, “in, in the meantime, this should be our last visit. Until we can find a way to do it in absolute secrecy. I won’t risk them sending you away.”

“As much as I hate to say it, you’re right.”

“I often am.”

Barclay chuckles, kisses his nose, “just a few more minutes?”

Joseph nods, and Barclay rolls them onto the bed, clinging to him, their hands running over every inch of each other, as if they could store up the touch, the feeling of the other man’s body, the way one stores away jam for winter days when all that is longed for is a little sweetness. 

Eventually, with more reluctance than he thought his body could hold, Barclay sits up, Joseph mirroring him. As he steps off the bed, words from many minutes ago register in his mind.

“Wait, when you said husband, did you, uh, did you really mean it? Is that what you want?”

Joseph stands, pulling something silver from the center of his scarf. 

“I did. For, um, for obvious reasons you don’t need to answer anytime s-”

“Yes. God yes.” Barclay kisses him much harder than before, feels him laugh into his lips and melt into his touch. 

“In that case” Joseph murmurs, “take this.” He opens Barclay’s jacket, fastens a small tie-pin in the shape of a sea-serpent with a blue eye to the fabric. When the jacket closes, the pin rests near his heart.

“Until you can wear a ring, let that serve as my promise to you.”

Barclay sets his hand over his heart, feeling the pin beneath it as Joseph sets his shoulders and pushes his hair back with his fingers.

“Goodbye, Barclay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Barclay bows, hand still over heart. 

“I love you.” He adds quietly. 

Joseph turns back and gives him a final smile, loving and true. 

\----------------------------------------

“Young man, as soon as you come out you are in so much trouble!”

Dani tries not to pass out laughing as her girlfriend, hair loose and and nightdress riding up, lays on her stomach and flails her arms uselessly under a wardrobe. Somewhere just out of reach, Dr. Harris Bonkers honks.

“Don’t you take that tone with me!”

“Fireblossom, come to bed. He can just stay under there.”

“Don’t you remember the last time? He ate through a wall!”

“Oh yeah.” Dani flops on the bed with a groan, “I can’t believe a rabbit is keeping me from feeling up my cute girlfriend.”

“Me neither. Hey! Don’t eat that!”

They both freeze at the knock on the door. 

“It’s me.” Mama’s voice drawls and Dani hurries over to open it.

“What in the hell is all the racket comin from here?”

“Dr. Harris Bonkers is stuck.”

“He’s not stuck, he’s, ergh, stubborn.” Aubrey sits up, exasperated. 

“Can’t you just move the wardrobe?”

“It’s bolted down and to the wall, we already checked.”

“Hmmm, lemme see…” Mama steps beside the Dani, runs her hand appraisingly along the oaken panels, “....hold up. It’s got bolts on it, but it ain’t actually attached to the wall. Here, you two grab that side.”

They move in tandem, wardrobe dragging across the floor to reveal a disgruntled, dusty rabbit gnawing on the floor baseboard. 

That, and a small door.

“It’s a safe.” Aubrey steps forward, the metal panel at eye level, “it doesn’t look like it’s been touched in years.”

“Judging by the dust, I’d say you’re right.” Mama drags her finger along it and comes away with an inch of grime. 

“....Seems like the place you might put a secret will, yeah?” Dani looks at Aubrey, who grins. 

“It sure does. All we need now is a key.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------

“You’re sure this all the keys you can find?” A clank as Aubrey tosses yet another key into the “no” pile.

“Yep. Every one I could turn up in the cottage, greenhouse, and sheds.” Duck continues sorting out the keys that are clearly the wrong size, Dani and Indrid helping him as Stern puts the rejects back into a box. They need to keep the room as clear of evidence as possible, in case Woodbridge decides to drop in on his niece (the locked door only buys them so much time). Mama continues searching for the edges of the safe, or some other small flaw that will allow them to open it sans key. 

Barclay is the only one absent, busy preparing dinner for the night. Woodbridge is having more business contacts over, and Stern is bracing himself for an evening of painful conversation. 

He misses Barclay. This would be so much nicer if he could rest against him while they sorted and cleaned the keys. He hasn’t seen the other man any time other than when he serves them meals for three days. Though out of the corner of his eye, after he responds with a curt “thank you” or “that will be all, “ he notes Barclay resting his hand on his chest as he bows.

A ring announces dinner, and they all stand, brushing dust and rust from their clothes and wiping it from their hands. 

“Well, y’all won’t be needin us anymore. We’ll come back tomorrow, same time. Indrid, you got the vases?”

Indrid lifts the two vessels, full of wilting flowers; his and Ducks cover should Woodbridge see them in the house. 

The gardeners go first, and as Stern offers Aubrey his arm he hears Woodbridge snap, “Set those out of sight, they’ve just arrived.”

He and Aubrey reach the foot of the stairs, Mama and Dani behind them, Duck and Indrid shutting the doors to the disused sun-room, as Vincent opens the front door. 

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Evenin’”

“Good evening my dear sir.”

The men step through the door. One, bearded and and dressed for too flashily, surveys the space before extending his hand to Woodbridge. 

“Always a pleasure to see you again, my good fellow. My partner and I thank you a hundred times for welcoming us to your grand and glorious home. Don’t we, Boyd?”

The other man, taller and far more muscular, hands his top hat to Vincent and turns a practiced smile turns Woodbridge, “Yes, we do.”

Stern knows that smile.

Spikes of ice splinter through his heart. In his periphery, his father’s glass is two seconds away from shattering in his grip.

The wolves are no longer at the door; they’re inside the house.


	13. Agreements & Admissions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barclay helps. Indrid cautions. Dani makes a discovery.

Dinner is excruciating.

Stern’s nails dig into his palm over and over, so much so that Aubrey actually takes his hand under the table, flashing a concerned look his way. 

Boyd sits directly across from him. The other man, Ned, who he doesn’t recognize, sits across from Aubrey and talks more than everyone at the table combined. 

“So, um, Mr. Chicane-”

“Please, my dear Aubrey, call me Ned.”

“Riiiiight. So, how do you two know my uncle?”

“Through his business ventures of course! I myself am a curator of curiosities for the well-to-do, and your uncle has been so kind as to invest in my museum.”

“And you, Mr. Mosche?” Dani says, picking up Aubrey’s lead. 

“I’m just the muscle, miss.”

“Nonsense!” Ned slaps Boyd’s back, and the larger man glares sideways, “Boyd here has a fine eye for all things valuable.”

“I’ll bet.” Mama mutters. She’s been staring Ned down throughout the meal, stabbing her entree with more emphasis than usual.

Good. At least he’s not alone in his distrust. 

“And I understand congratulations are in order, dear Lady Little, for your coming nuptials.”

“Thank you.” Aubrey’s cheer is well-rehearsed. 

“You know, your uncle tells all sorts of stories about you.”

At the head of the table, Woobridge clears his throat. Ned plows ahead like a verbose locomotive. 

“It seems you have a great capacity for livening up gatherings.”

“Livening--oh, was this the time Dr. Harris Bonkers leash caught fire after a magic lesson with my tutor and he charged into the ball he was hosting?”

“No, but you must tell me about that immediately.” Ned leans forward with a mirthful gleam in his eye. From the set of Woobridge’s mouth, the con man (for there’s no doubt in Stern’s mind of his true profession) is straying from the script. 

Aubrey’s retelling of the incident involving a match trick, a curious lagomorph, and a mad dash for water elicits a belly laugh so jovial that, were Stern not fighting off petrification, could set anyone at ease. The fact Boyd keeps giving orders to Barclay, who is busy helping Vincent set and clear the courses, is not helping Sterns mood. 

“If you like that, you should hear the one about the fountain incident.” Dani adds and Ned, mid-sip of wine, gestures for her to go on. 

By the time Dani is done detailing how she and Aubrey ended up covered in water lilies, they’re nearly to dessert, and Stern’s spine no longer feels as though it’s been replaced with a steel rod. The fact that Barclay has made his favorite tart for dessert is nice, and the cook sneaks him a smile as he refills glasses while the conversation lulls. 

“So, groom-to-be, what do you do?” Boyd smiles at him. 

He smiles right back.

“I’m a researcher, working with the Royal Society.”

“Only you and the old man come down to arrange the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Usually a mother likes to be involved with such things.”

“My mother is ill, but she will be here for the wedding itself.”

“Ill? That’s a shame. But at least she knows her son has a lucrative profession.”

He can’t contradict his smug tone without potentially alerting Woodbridge to his true financial situation. 

“She’s very, uh, supportive.”

“Yes, she is.” His father adds, coolly. 

He mutters, “help” under his breath, hoping Dani or Aubrey will step in and steer the conversation into safer waters. 

Instead, wine splashes down his shoulder and into his lap.

“Shit!”

“Joseph!” His father scolds. 

“Apologies for my outburst.” He stands, dabbing at his clothes with the tablecloth. A larger hand joins his own, patting at his chest.

“I’m so sorry, sir, that was clumsy of me.” Barclay keeps his eyes on the floor, the picture of a penitent servant. 

“Do be more careful next time, Barclay.” He snaps as soon as he feels his father watching them, “If you all will excuse me, I need to go change.”

Once in the safety and quiet of his room, he hunches forward, gasping for air. 

He wishes Barclay had followed him. He needs a hug. Or to possibly fall to his knees and thank him for his sticky salvation.

Peeling off his stained jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, he finds the wine has saturated all the way down to his skin.

Nothing for it but a bath. One that will mean he’s not dressed until after dinner is complete. He almost rings to have Barclay draw the bath for him, then thinks better of it. 

As he’s patting himself dry, the door to his room opens, and he grabs his Banyan before stepping out into the main room. 

“Nice trick with the cook.” Boyd leans against the door, casually taking in the room. 

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I watched that fella carry a half dozen trays and glasses without so much a wobble all night. Doubt he’s clumsy enough to spill a half-bottle of wine onto his future master.”

“I assure you, I did not want to be doused in wine tonight.”

Boyd holds up his hands in disinterested surrender.

“Why are you here? We’ve paid through next month, and quite frankly, jeopardizing my ability to marry Lady Little is a terrible financial move on your part.” Stern crosses to the fire Vincent thoughtfully lit before dinner.

“I ain’t here for you, or your father. Like Edmund said, we’re in business with Mr. Woodbridge.”

“Do you honestly expect me to believe that after everything you’ve done?”

“Hey, I’m just-”

“The muscle, yes, you keep fucking saying that, as if it erases all the times you’ve turned up at our door to collect.”

“I never came by myself, though, now did I.”

“No, you came with a pack, ready to run us to ground if we angered you.” He advances on the other man, ready to throw him out, but instead Boyd strides across the floor to meet him. 

“Look, _Mr. Stern_ , you had every bloody thing handed to you in life, your father made damn sure of that. You ain't ever had to do hard work, grimy work, and your family made plenty of money off of men like me. The least you and your old man can do is pay for me to keep a fucking roof over my head.”

“You could come after me as much as you damn well please, and honestly if you hounded my father only I’d applaud you. He’s done plenty to earn it. But my mother never harmed anyone, convinced my father again and again to help those in need rather than horde every last pound. And you are threatening her with a horrible fate, and I will not stand for it.”

Boyd simply lifts an eyebrow, “Well, good thing we ain't here for you then. I mean it. We didn’t even know you and he would be here. Just knew Lady Little’s fiance would be around.”

He’s not lying, and the realization knocks all the fight from Stern. 

“Here’s what I propose; you and your dear old dad don’t mention my past to Woodbridge, or to Edmund, and I won’t tell him about the family he’s marrying his niece into. Deal?”

Stern takes a deep breath, weighs his options, and decides the safest option is best. For now.

“Deal.” He holds out his hand. 

Boyd reaches out, and pats his cheek, smearing condescension on his face, “That’s a smart lad.”

\----------------------------------------

“What has gotten into that dog?” Indrid groans, dragging a pillow over his head as Beacon’s bark pierces the window. 

“Lemme go look.”

“Nooo, you are so warm.”

“I’ll be right back, darlin’. Besides, sometimes he alerts me to somethin’ useful, like a handsome fella who tripped over my fence.”

When he steps out into the rain, there’s no sight of anything unusual, but Beacon strains on his lead all the same, baying in the direction of the hall.

“It’s alright, boy, it’s alright, go back to sleep n-”

A shadow, moving to decisively to be a storm-tossed branch or wind-blown shrub, catches his eye. He waits as Beacon snaps and howls to see if it happens again. It doesn’t.

He shrugs, turns back to the cottage. Then he stops, and pays out a few extra feet on Beacon’s leash, just in case. 

Duck remains on edge all through the next morning, looking over his shoulder each time Indrid moves a branch or scoops up a shovel of earth. 

“Good morrow, gentleman!” 

“Jesus!” Duck whirls to find one of the men from last night standing one the path, a well-maintained top hat on his head and umbrella shielding him from the light rain. For large man, he made almost no noise in his approach.

“Apologies, my good man. I am told you are the custodian of these fine gardens.”

“Uh, yep. Somethin’ I can do for you Mr…?”

“Ned Chicane, at your service. And I am simply getting a lay of the land. Do you have any favorite parts of the gardens?”

“The fountain near the roses ain’t bad, and when it ain’t all mud the orchards are mighty peaceful.”

“I’m partial to the duck ponds.” Indrid adds. 

“I shall start with those then. Thank you…”

“Name’s Duck, this here is Indrid, my assistant.”

Indrid gives his too-wide smile as Ned tips his hat and trots off down the path. 

Thus begins a pattern that continues through the week and into the next; Ned passes by Indrid and Duck, and asks them for certain locations in the garden. The oldest, the driest, the one with the finest flowers, and so on. He’s effusive in his praise, and sometimes he’ll actually stay and chat.

“Pity he’s so full of bullshit; I kinda like the guy.” This Duck says as he and Indrid deliver fresh herbs and extra firewood to Barclay. The cook is scrubbing dishes with the same subdued look he’s worn for weeks while Mama carves a small wooden rabbit.

“Glad we’re in agreement, ‘cause I don’t trust either of them as far as I can throw ‘em. Which I just may do before all this is over.”

“Stern got any ideas?” Duck asks carefully.

“I wouldn’t know. We decided it was safest to stop speaking with each other until...until this is all over.”

Duck catches Mama’s eye as she casts a worried glance towards the cook. 

“Y’know, Woodbridge left for town this mornin’, took Hayes with ‘im so he could run some business errands. Heard them talkin’ about it in the carriage-house.”

“I suspect Joseph will be in the library, as he often is this time of day.” Indrid adds helpfully, though Barclay is half-out the door before he finishes. 

Mama shakes her head, amused, “Never thought I’d say this, be he and Stern do make a fine pair. Speakin of fine pairs, either of you seen Dani and Aubrey?”

“Nope. If I were them, I’d be tryin’ to work out those damn symbols on the safe.”

They’ve been puzzling over them for days; markings in the metal that are too deliberate to be scratches yet bear no resemblance to any language or number.

“Would be if I were them. Time’s a tickin’ and Woodbridge’ll only be stalled so long.”

\-------------------------------------

Dani and Aubrey are, in fact, trying to decipher the marks, sifting through books that Stern identifies as possibly having what they need. 

This is why Barclay finds him gently bonking his forehead into the desk when he comes in.

“Joseph?”

The change is instantaneous, energy returning to his form in a wave. But when he turns, Barclay’s heart tightens with worry. There are dark circles under his eyes, and even his smile is tinged with exhaustion. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Barclay opens his arms and the other man literally falls into them. 

“Missed the weight of you in my arms, sir.”

“I missed it too. I miss so many things. You got the note I left under your door?”

“Uh huh. You sure Boyd’s the same man?”

“He confirmed it to my face.”

“Fuck. Have you told the others?”

“No! No of course I haven’t, why would I?” Joseph looks up, startled by the suggestion.

“Be-cause they’re your friends? And on your side?”

“But it’s shameful.”

“What is? Your mother's mind being a little different? Your family paying to protect her? Joseph, no one here, save for probably Woodbridge, would think badly of those things. And, uh, besides, feel like the rest of ‘em deserve to know Boyd’s past; might help us figure out what he’s doing here.” 

Joseph buries his face against his chest, says something unintelligible.

“Gonna have to repeat that for me, sir.” Barclay kisses the top of his head.

“Will you come with me when I do?”

“Of course. We’re partners, no matter how much we have to pretend we’re not. And that means I’ll be by your side when you need me.”

Joseph brushes his hair back with his fingers, offers Barclay his arm, and walks the short path to Aubrey;s room. 

“Aww, I’m glad you get some time together.” Aubrey grins knowingly, head resting in Dani’s lap as they read.

“Me too. But there’s, um, there’s something I need to tell you.”

\-----------------------------------

Ned Chicane is experiencing an unusual sensation; a crisis of conscience. 

He’s used to jobs that were in and out in a night or maybe a day, not one’s that last for weeks on end. Not ones where he gets to know the people in the house. 

In spite of his friendly demeanor, he knows a number of the guests distrust him, which means they’re either perceptive or he’s losing his edge. Yet even so, he spends much of his time conversing with Aubrey and Dani in the house, and Duck and Indrid in the gardens. He’s polite as can be to Barclay and the younger Stern, but each seems to steer clear of him. 

He gives Mama a wide berth; he’d like to live to see the new year, thank you very much.

He gets along with Aubrey the best, the young woman teasing him that he’s like the fun uncle she never had. To his dismay, he now holds a degree of paternal protectiveness towards her. 

_“You sure you’re actually searchin the grounds and not spendin all bloody day gabbin’ with the Lady of the house and her lady in waiting?”_

_“Of course, my dear Boyd. And I’ll have you know I gab with many others besides.”_

_“I’m serious, Edmund.” Boyd appears in the mirror behind him, and Ned pauses his undressing for the night to listen._

_“This job, Edmund, you, you owe it to me to do it well. After everything that happened.”_

_“Have my previous apologies been insufficient?” Ned arches and eyebrow and gets a glower in response._

_“Apologies don’t put coins in our pockets. This job with Woodbridge’ll have us set for life. And I’ll be sore about you leavin me to rot in prison while you scurried off to America until the day I die.”_

_“I came back, didn’t I?”_

_“Two bloody years after I got out! I thought you’d be waitin’ for me, that we’d pick up where we left off, not that I’d have to scrounge around and take up with whatever crook would have me just to stay fed.” Boyd snarls out the last sentence, whirling and stalking over to the bed. Ned follows him cautiously, rests a hand on his shoulder._

_“I regret all of that. I will until the day I die.”_

_“I don;t need your regrets, Edmund. I need you to find what we were hired to find.”_

Replaying the conversation as he strolls towards the rose circle, he wonders if telling Aubrey or Duck would be helpful; perhaps they know something. Woodbridge demanded secret, but still…

“Good afternoon, Mr. Chicane.”

“Please, Indrid, call me Ned.”

“Very well. Ned.” The pale-haired man regards him from a stone bench.

“Duck isn’t with you?”

“Not today. I told him I wanted to meet you on your most common walking route on my own. Because I want you to know that I know why you are here.”

“To do business-”

“With Woodbridge, yes, that is true. In spite of what my former employer thinks, I remain intelligent and perceptive. And because he did not bother to alter my contract, he cannot control me the way he can control the others.” Indrid stands, regarding him over his red glasses, “you’re here for the will, the one left by Aubrey’s mother.”

Ned says nothing; for all his bluster, he knows when silence is his best friend.

Indrid shrugs, “I suspect he did not tell you the full details, such as he is hoping to destroy the will so he can control Aubrey for longer.”

Ned’s guts roil in his belly at those words.

“And so he can keep all those he employs here, save for myself, fearful and obedient for as long as possible.”

“Even Dani?”

“Especially Dani. Aubrey loves her more than anything, no doubt you’ve noticed their closeness. And so Woodbridge sees her as a great threat, and a great pawn when he needs one.”

“Why tell me all this? Uh, assuming that is that your belief about my business here is true.”

“In part because I think you deserve to know what you are aiding and abetting if you succeed. But really, think of this less as an information exchange and more as a warning.” He grins wide, an expression that leaves Ned ill at ease.

“You are fond of Aubrey and Dani, are you not?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You are not the only person on these grounds to feel such a way. So look to your conscience, Ned Chicane. And if that is not sufficient, look to your sense of self-preservation as well. Good afternoon.” Indrid tips his head deferentially and disappears into the hedgerows. 

Ned does as suggested, agonizes over his options for twenty-four hours. 

Then he goes to look for Aubrey, finds her, Dani, Stern, and Mama in hushed conversation in the Lady Little’s rooms. 

“Lookin’ for something, Chicane?” 

“As a matter of fact, Mama, I am. I’m looking for the will of your late mother, Aubrey.”

“You’re WHAT!” Aubrey jumps out of her chair and Ned steps back hurriedly, “ _That’s_ what your ‘business’ with my uncle is? You’ve been kind to me, been my friend, for weeks all because you were just looking for the chance to steal away my chance of not being miserable the next several years.”

“No, I-”

“Ned, I am going to count to ten, and you have that long to explain.” With the gaze she’s giving him, Ned is amazed he’s not engulfed in furious fire on the spot.

“One”

“Boyd and I are professional thieves”

“Two”

“Your uncle hired us to find the will”

“Three”

“But he didn’t tell us why!”

Aubrey looks unconvinced, but stops counting.

“Indrid told me yesterday what the will would do, and I spent this morning going through your uncle’s papers to confirm his story. I...I cannot believe I am saying this, but I would rather help you than continue working for him. Uh, also, please keep that confession between us.”

“By which you mean ‘don’t tell Boyd.” Stern says flatly. 

“Correct.”

“Why the hell should we trust you?” Mama spins her pocketknife nonchalantly in her fingers.

“Because if you know of the will, then you have likely been trying to locate it. And it is obvious you haven’t. I am very good at what I do. If the will is in this house, I will find it, and when I do I want it to be to your benefit.”

Everyone in the room turns to Aubrey, awaiting her decision.

“Fine. You can help. But if you betray us, or try to pull anything even remotely disreputable, you better hope my uncle is willing to pay for you to have an armed gaurd the rest of your life. 

Ned knew there was a reason he like the young woman. 

He bows low, “You have my word, Lady Aubrey.”

\-------------------------------------------------

Ned’s assistance has, so far, done little to expedite the opening of the safe, though not for lack of trying. He’s attempted to pick the lock four times, each with no success. 

But he’s stayed true to his word as far as Aubrey can tell, and that counts more than all his other efforts combined. 

Her uncle and future father-in-law have been in town the last two days, and she and her friends have alternated who searches for the key or open the safe, who tries to decipher the code, and who distracts Boyd. Right now, she and Dani are by the safe with Ned, while Barclay, Mama, and Jake (who was just happy to be included) keep an eye on Boyd. 

“Maybe we should just get a battering ram.” Dani groans, leaning against the wall by the safe.

“It may damage the will. But at this point we ought to keep it in mind nonetheless.” Ned stretches his arms, back cracking as he does. 

“I’ll take a half-destroyed will over zero will at this point.” Aubrey mutters, looking to Dani for sympathy. The blonde doesn’t look back, is instead staring intently in the mirror across from where the wardrobe once stood.

“Everything alright, honeysuckle?”

Dani gasps, waves her arm at Aubrey, “we need a hand mirror, or a looking glass or ah HA!” She grabs the small mirror from Aubrey’s dressing table, “come here.”  
Aubrey and Ned crowd in next to her as she holds the glass up to the safe. There, in the reflection, are the words _look in the stone_.

“Look in the stone? But the whole freaking place is mostly stone!” Aubrey throws up her hands, exasperated.

“That may be, but it narrows our search from ‘all of Sylvain’ to 'most of Sylvain’.” Dani sets down the mirror.

“True. You’re a genius.” She embraces her girlfriend, spinning her with excitement before kissing her nose. 

The door bursts open, sending all three of them scampering to look casual. 

Indrid, hands on his knees, pants as he looks up at them.

“You, you need to get out, skip town, do something. I, I figured out what Woodbridge has been in the city for the last two days. There’s no time, Duck’s already got horses ready to go.”

The front doors open, and she hears her uncles footfalls. Indrid blanches, hangs his head.

“I was too late. I’m sorry.”

“Aubrey, Dani? Oh, thank you, Vincent, can you fetch Barclay?”

“Joseph, this concerns you as well!”

The two women join hands, approaching the stairs with trepidation as Ned puts the room back together in a hurry, Indrid hanging back out of sight to eavesdrop. 

“Yes, uncle?” Aubrey puts on her sweetest smile as the entry hall comes into view, Joseph standing near his father and Barclay emerging from the back hall. 

“I thought you both would like to hear the good news. You will be getting married tomorrow. Both of you.”

“Wait, that’s-”

“And what’s more, we’ll be celebrating a new phase in your life Dani. You see” Woodbridge grins at them, and Aubrey wants to put his eyes out with her nails, “you will be going abroad. As I have just secured your future husband” he gestures to Barclay, now statue-still, “a most excellent post in America. In the great state of Virginia.”


	14. Plots & Ploys

The cacophony is immediate.

“The wedding isn’t until October!” 

“We chose to expedite it, son.”

“Expedite? You’re fucking dropping it on us like a net! This, this is completely _not okay_!” Aubrey holds tighter to Dani’s arm 

“There’s no way in hell we’re going Virginia.” This Dani says to Barclay, whose face has lost all color. 

“Then Barclay will be going to jail for failure to comply with his contract.”

“He will be doing no such thing.” Stern steps between Woodbridge and the cook, “surely the marriage gives me some say over the staff here.”

“No.”

“But-”

“The ceremonies will take place tomorrow evening, all the documents, the judge, and the minister will arrive tomorrow.”

“So, so, that’s it? No guests, no dress, just you two making everyone miserable?” 

“Niece, it is what is necessary.”

“No, it’s not!” Aubrey pulls Dani back up the stairs, pausing only to yell, “I’m not getting married tomorrow, and that’s final!”

Woodbridge watches her go, his face a picture of calm. Then he turns to Stern with a smile.

“Don’t worry, she will come around. I will make sure of it.”

“There’s no need to rush on my account.” He aches to step backwards and take Barclay’s hands, which he can see trembling even as they remain folded in front of him. 

“Oh, there very much is. Your mother and sister will forgive us for our haste, I have no doubt.”

Woodbridge turns to Barclay, “You are dismissed. We shall dine on leftovers tonight, since you will need to make preparations for the wedding. And, of course, you will need to pack your things. We can’t waste any time getting you to America, after all.”  
\---------------------------------------------

“I am sorry. I was not fast enough.” Indrid warms his hands in front of the stove in the darkened kitchen, “I realized what his trips coincided with, why he took Hayes but no one else, and came back with little new information; in spite of my demotion, had he been making any large, new business ventures, he would likely have come to me.”

“What am I gonna do?” Barclay mumbles, head in his hands as he sits at the table.

“You’re gonna let me come with you, for starters.” Mama stands behind him, rubbing his back, “anyone wants to hurt you or Dani, they’re gonna be dealin’ with me.”

“Mama I can’t, I can’t ask you to take that risk.”

“You ain’t askin’; I’m volunteerin’.”

“There’s gotta be another way we can stall things.” Duck drums his fingers on the table. 

“Ideally by waylaying the minister. Hmmmm.” Indrid tents his fingers, gazing up at the ceiling, “you know, I think I have an idea. It will take both of us, Duck, and we’ll need to work much of the night.”

“How are we gonna do that without Woodbridge or Hayes noticin?”

“Ahem.”

The quartet whirls to find Vincent shutting the door gingerly behind him. 

“I believe I can help with that.”

“Holy shit, really?” Duck arches an eyebrow. 

The butler nods, “I’ve been in Sylvain a long time, and watched Lady Aubrey grow up. She has always been able to handle herself, and I never thought her uncle would overstep in such a manner. Nor that he would be so callous towards you.” He rests his hand on Barclay’s shoulder, “so do what you need to in order to stall the nuptials as long as possible. I will make sure Woodbridge sleeps very heavily tonight.”

\-----------------------------------------

Fear can cause all manner of reactions. In Stern’s case, that reaction is bursting into Boyd’s room, causing the man to sit bolt upright in bed.

“What the-”

“What did you tell him?” Stern’s voice is colder than the sleet hitting the windows. 

“Not a bloody thing.”

“The wedding is suddenly tomorrow and you expect me to believe you didn’t try to earn a little extra by passing information or rumors to my father?”

“Now look lad-”

Stern grabs the crooks nightshirt, ready to haul him from the bed, “You’re the kind of man who will blackmail an ill woman with the threat of bedlam. I don’t want to hear another word from you that isn’t an explanation.”

“The kind of man who would do _what_?”

Stern spins, startled, still holding fast to Boyd. Ned is in the doorway, frowning. 

“Edmund, whatever he says next is a lie.”

“I’ve met your partner many times, Mr. Chicane. He’s the muscle alright; the muscle that comes every month to our door to collect money or ring the doctors who would cart my mother off to that house of horrors.”

“Boyd, is this true?”

“I just said it wasn’t.” Boyd locks eyes with his partner. 

Shock spreads across the older man's face, “Good god, Stern, you’re telling the truth.”

“Of course I am!”

“I can, however, vouch that he did not give any information about you or Aubrey to Woodbridge. I’ve known this scoundrel many years, and that was not a lie.”

Stern still doesn’t let go, but his nails are no longer tearing the fabric. 

“I suspect it may still have to do with our work however; we have not found what we were hired to find, and so he has taken matters into his own hands. We need to find that key, and fast. And you, Boyd, are going to help us; we’ll work faster with two thieves than one.”

“Why should I help you, when you’ve clearly thrown in with them. Woodbridge finds out, he won’t pay either of us.”

“Because, my dear Boyd, we both have things to atone for in our lives. You, apparently, chose to add to that list rather recently. I am choosing to help my friends as part of that. You can choose the same. Or you can choose to stay locked in that closet until tomorrow evening.”

Stern glances at Boyd. The conman looks hurt, with fury nipping on it’s heels. 

“Fuck you, Chicane.”

Ned sighs, “Very well, I was afraid you'd say that. My dear Stern, kindly hold him for a moment, won’t you? I have some ropes in my things that will do quite nicely."

\----------------------------------------------

“What are we going to--what are you doing?”

“Packing.” Aubrey tosses her spare boots into the suitcase, “we’re getting out of here.”

“But Woodbridge-”

“Is already threatening to do the worst thing he can. Running away can’t possibly make it worse.”

“Aubrey your home, the fortune, you might lose it all.”

Aubrey turns, resting her hands on Dani’s forearms, “I don’t care. I love you, Dani, I love you more than anything else. The house, the money, none of that matters if we’re not together. Wherever we are, as long as we’re together, that’s home to me.”

Dani smiles, tearful, and leans in to kiss her.

“I feel the same, fireblossom.”

For a moment all Aubrey does is hold her, and Dani rests her head on his shoulder, inhaling the spiced vanilla of her perfume, marveling at how they fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Right.” Aubrey steps back, hands gliding down green satin to take Dani’s own, “Okay. Right. Let’s do this.”

Dani grabs a small bag, is halfway through filling it when there’s a knock at the door.

“Aubrey? It’s Ned. Are you still awake?” The man is unusually quiet. 

Aubrey tiptoes to the door, “Yeah, I am, why?”

“May I come in?"

She looks to Dani, waits for her to nod before opening the door. Ned walks in, eyes immediately falling on the bags set beside each other on the bed. 

“Going on a late night excursion?”

“Ned, I swear, if you say anything or try to stop us.”

Ned shakes his head with a chuckle, “Nothing of the sort, dear Aubrey. I was merely going to say you’re a young lady after my own heart. Might you need an escort down to the stables? The ears are not quite as young as they once were, but they are still adept at hearing trouble before it arrives.”

Soon they’re sneaking across the lawn, Dani and Aubrey barefoot as Ned carries their bags.

“Is it just me or is the garden kinda different?"

“It is.”

Dani and Aubrey both stifle a shout of surprise as Indrid pokes his head out from behind the shrub.

“Indrid don’t _do_ that.” Aubrey hisses.

“Apologies. On my suggestion, Duck has readied the horses for you, and Vincent has made certain your uncle and attempted father in law are not going to wake up any time soon."

“Holy shit, did Vincent kill them?”

Indrid tilts his head, confused, “No. What an odd idea.”

“Nevermind. Can you help us to the stable?”

Indrid bows, then leads them to the stable where Duck and Jake are finishing packing saddlebags.

“Barclay packed y’all some food, and these two are fed and watered enough to get you pretty damn far before you need to stop.”

Aubrey loops her bag into the saddle, throws her arms around Duck, “Thank you. Just...tell everyone thank you, okay? And take care of Dr. Harris Bonkers for me.”

“You got it.”

“You should be able to send word to Duck or myself without your uncle knowing, so give us location in case we have to alert you that we found the key.”

“We will, Indrid. Thank you.” Dani mounts her horse, and Aubrey does the same a moment later. Then they spur the steeds forward, and disappear into the rainy night.

\------------------------------

“Where. Are. they?” 

“Don’t rightly know.” Mama crosses her arms, shrugging with a grin as Woodbridge prowls up and down the line-up of the remaining residents of the house (excepting the two Stern’s).

“No idea.” Barclay echoes, and Jake nods along with him.

“I haven’t the faintest idea, sir.” Vincent looks appropriately concerned, but Stern can see his lips fighting to stay neutral. 

“And where is that damn gardener and my useless former consultant?”

“I believe they are gathering the flowers for the ceremony as you instructed them, sir.” Vincent replies. 

“Fine. I will deal with them later. The minister and judge will be arriving shortly and they cannot find the house in such disarray.”

“ _That’s_ your concern?” Hayes steps beside him, “your niece is gone, there won’t be a wedding unless she comes back!”

“She will. I have already asked Mr. Chicane to take Mr. Mosche to go look for her. I have no doubt they will find her. “

\----------------------------

“Well, old friend, have you had some time to think?”

“Yes.” Boyd grumbles, “I think you’re being a bloody old fool who’s going to cost us the ability to retire somewhere nice instead of thieving until we die.”

“Have you considered, dear Boyd, that Aubrey will be far more generous than her uncle if she rewards us for our help in this matter?”

“...Is that your real reason for doin’ this?”

“Hardly. But it’s certainly a fine incentive towards noble behavior don’t you think?” Ned grins at him. 

Someone unfamiliar with Boyd would think his face remains the same as he thinks over his answer. But Ned sees the fine wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes, the mischief enter the sneer.

“Alright you sentimental coot, what do you have planned?”

\-------------------------------------------------

“Where the devil is everyone?”

“Perhaps the rain delayed them, sir.” Vincent refills Stern’s wineglass, keeping one eye on Woodbridge.

His father, who’s been pacing by the window, comes to a comically sudden stop, “Or maybe they’re lost in the labyrinth of your grounds.”

Stern and Woodbridge hurry to join him, and Stern has to take a large sip of his drink to cover the smile. Every planter box, every potted plant, every item in the garden that could be moved has been. He also knows that somewhere out there, Indrid is waiting in the event the judge or minister gets too close too soon, ready to act as the worlds least helpful guide through the remainder of the maze. With Aubrey and Dani gone, the stall isn't technically needed, but at this point making Woodbridge miserable is a goal in and of itself. 

“You ought to be more upset than you seem, son. Your bride has run away.” His father hisses at him.

Stern takes another sip and replies flatly, “Ah yes. How terrible. Woe is me.”

\--------------------------------

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dani peers nervously over Aubrey’s shoulder as the other woman sets her mothers necklace down on the table.

“I’m sure. This opal is worth a lot, if I can sell it off we can go pretty much wherever we want for the next few years.”

This would be better than there current circumstances. The horses were well fed and rested, but that didn’t stop Aubrey’s from stumbling in a massive puddle and injuring itself. They need to act fast if they want to get out of the town where--from the right angle--Sylvain can still be seen..

“Now, if I can just get--agh, okay, honeysuckle can you hold this while I jam this knife in there?”

“I really hope we both come out of this with all our fingers.”

“Eh, I’ve never been that attached to the tip of my pinky.”

“Aubrey” 

“Kidding! Ha! That’s got it, okay, just a little more…” 

The stone pops free of it’s backing, setting off a trio of clatters. One as it hits the floor some feet away. Another as the back falls away. And a third as a small, metallic key clinks onto the table in front of them.

“Holy SHIT!” Aubrey shrieks.

“We found it. WE FOUND IT!” Dani jumps up and down excitedly before pulling her into an ecstatic kiss. 

“Get your shoes on, honey, we’ve got a will to find!”

\---------------------------

“Ah, your honor, your grace, welcome to Sylvain Hall.” Woodbridge, along with the two Sterns, bows.

“Mr. Woodbridge, my deepest apologies, but we were delayed by the, ah, terrain.” Judge Owens shakes the offered hand.

“Turns out havin’ a fella who ain’t a gardener by trade lead ‘em through didn’t go to well.” Duck and Indrid step in out of the rain. 

“Indrid, if you have impeded this affair at all-”

“What affair?” Sterns grin is almost as wide as Indrid’s, “there’s no brides, so there’s not going to be any weddings.”

“There will be a wedding one way or another today, goddamnit. Ah, apologies, your grace.”

“No brides?” The judge looks at his clerk, “do you mean they’ve run off?”

“No, no not at all. Simply one of those little games my niece is so fond of. I have men out looking for her as we speak.”

“Who would that be?” Boyd strolls into the room, Ned on his arm. 

The look on Woodbridge’s face has Duck covering his mouth to muffle giggles. Mama has no such qualms, guffawing uproariously.

“Were my instructions unclear?” Woodbridge manages through his teeth.

“No. But who are we to drag the mistress of the house back when she clearly has other ideas?”

“You are the men I paid to do exactly that!”

“Wait” Hayes whirls on Woodbridge, “do you have any idea what they actually _do_?”

“They find things.” Woodbridge catches sight of the judge, “ah, like, like my missing niece.”

“And a missing will.” Barclay says softly, setting down his tray of drinks he's been holding, “Judge Owens, sir, Aubrey and Dani aren’t coming back any time soon.”

“Barclay, that’s enough.”

“You’re already sending me away, you’re kinda out of things to threaten me with.” 

“Damn right.” Mama lifts her glass and downs it.

“Woodbridge tried to force them to marry people they didn't want to. So unless you feel like wasting your time, you should just go. Or, uh, maybe marry those two.” He points to Duck and Indrid, each turning a deep red.

“Not, uh, not quite there yet. Try us again in the spring.” Duck takes Indrid’s hand, making a rude gesture at Woodbridge when he tries to object. 

“I see. Well, in that case-”

BANG

Two soaked figures in riding dresses sprint through the door and up the stairs. 

“They found it.” Barclay whispers, smile creeping across his face. 

“AUBREY LITTLE YOU GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!” Woodbridge moves to follow them, only for a silver-tipped cane to cross his chest, barring his way.

“I would reconsider, my friend.” Ned says calmly as Boyd draws himself up to his full height. 

“This is ridiculous! Joseph, come with me.” His father grabs his arm, trying to pull him towards the stairs. 

“No.”

“Joseph, for gods sake!”

“My answer is no. It should have been 'no' months ago, but I was too afraid to say it. I’m not marrying Aubrey. She and Dani love each other; they deserve to be wives, not stuck in some false marriage with husbands who’d also much rather be together."

For the first time in a long while, fearful sorrow crosses his father’s face, “Your mother-”

“Will be alright. I promise you, father, my friends and I will see to it that no more harm becomes her.”

For the longest second of recorded time, his father stares at him. Then he releases his hold on Stern’s arm and steps back.

A thudding of boots announces the women’s descent, and on the second to last stair Aubrey holds a paper triumphant in the air.

“GOT IT!”

“Show it to the judge, kiddo.” Mama nods her head towards the very perplexed guests. Aubrey hands over the will, staying next to the judge as he reads. 

“...In the event of my death, the entirety of my estate passes to my daughter, Aubrey Little, regardless of her age.” 

Dani collapses with relief on the stairs as the others raise an ear-splitting cheer.

He folds the paper, returning it to Aubrey, “that all seems rather clear to me, Lady Aubrey. And given that you are, legally, the mistress of the house, I would not blame you if you would like certain people removed.”

Woodbridge looks like he might faint. 

Aubrey shakes her head, “No. Not yet, anyway. Besides, we might need you to stick around. Honeysuckle?”

“Give me a few days? This is about as much major change as I can handle in twenty-four hours. Also I'd honestly like to get married when the weather's not trying to create the next great flood.”

“Then we’ll wait. Anything for you, cutie.” Aubrey settles next to her on the stairs, draping her arms around her.

Stern turns to look at Barclay. With a bashful look in his eye, the cook reaches into his pocket and retrieves a silver ring. Holds it where only Joseph can see, a question and an answer all at once. 

“In that case, gentleman” he takes Barclay’s hand, turning to the judge and the minister, “we’d like to be the ones taking advantage of your services this evening.”


	15. Climaxes & Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern gets a letter. Duck travels. Barclay makes a toast.

It becomes a joke in later years that Sylvain Hall had a wedding for every season. One--very hurried in the ballroom-- in summer, one in spring and one--very likely-- in fall.

The spring wedding happened yesterday, a small ceremony in the finally dry gardens. Dani opted for a white dress of fine lace, spring flowers woven into her hair by her best man. Aubrey wore a sleek red dress, lined with black velvet trim. Dani expected nothing less from her fire-hearted wife. 

As beautiful as the brides looked, all their finery is now in a heap on the floor. 

“If we miss breakfast because of this, they’ll never let us live it downAH!” Dani giggles as her wife kisses a sensitive patch of thigh.

“Pfft, as if they’re even up yet. From the look he was giving him, Stern probably put Barclay through his paces last night. Only reason we didn’t hear it is, y’know.” She gives Dani’s clit a playful lick, making her squeak.

“Good poinnnntahfuck!” He hands fly down to Aubrey’s hair as she continues teasing her with her tongue. There’s a muffled, amused moan as she starts on firmer licks, finding the movements that never fail to make Dani’s toes curl.

“Fuck, sweetheart, that feels really good, that’sAHnnnfuck.” She groans, arching her back when Aubrey presses two fingers inside, curving them in just the right way as her mouth and tongue turn their attention to her clit. Dani’s rolls her hips, desperate for more, moaning when Aubrey eagerly gives it.

“Hee, you look so good all wound up.” Aubrey kisses just below her bellybutton.

“Aubrey, please, I’m really close.”

“Don’t worry honey, was just pausing to get a look at you.” 

“We’re married, love, we see each other everyday.”

“So? You’re still the prettiest girl in the world.”

“You can be so sappyEEE, nnn, nevermind, fuck” she feels Aubrey smile against her as her hips begin to stutter, “fuck, sweetheart, Aubrey, yes, yesyes _yes_.”

Aubrey crawls up her as she cums and Dani wastes no time, rolling them so they’re on their sides, face to loving face, and slipping her hand between Aubrey’s thighs. 

“You need a br--OHokay, that answers that, oh, oooohyes.” Aubrey clings to her as she works her fingers inside. 

“Not a chance, fireflower, mmmmm, I love it when you get going like this.”

“It’s j-just the effect you have on meAHohhhhh.” Aubrey kisses her neck messily as Dani cups her breast with her free hand. They always feel perfect in her grip and--in in her more lewd moments--they’re her favorite part of her wife’s body.

“Dani, Dani FUCK, ohgod, _what_ are you doing with your hand?” Aubrey wiggles her hips 

“Making you cum, it looks like.”

Aubrey snickers, nips at her collarbone, and then gasps, trying and failing to form words, as Dani fucks her as hard as she can. Her wife cums with a cry, holding her tight enough to leave scratches down her back. 

As Aubrey pants, eyes shining brighter than any gem, Dani kisses the constellations of freckles on her face. Aubrey laughs softly, snuggles up against her. 

“We’ve probably traumatized Dr. Harris Bonkers.”

“I hear it’s best for children to grow up with parents who noticeably love each other.” Dani teases. 

“Yeeeah, that probably doesn’t include overhearing them fucking. But he’ll live.”

Dani sighs happily, glances at the clock, “do you want to get up?”

“Let’s stay here just a little longer. You’re cute and your boobs are comfy and you’re awesome.”

Dani laughs, holds her closer as she brushes their noses together, “I love you, fireblossom.”

Aubrey smiles at her, “I love you too, honeysuckle.”

\------------------------------------------------

“Y’know, view really is mighty nice from here.”

“Why do I get the sense you are not referring solely to the woods?” Indrid looks over his shoulder at Duck, who's halfway out of his traveling clothes. In spite of obviously staring at his ass, the gardener gives him his most innocent smile, and so Indrid turns back to his sketch. 

The inn is pleasant enough, though as soon as the owner spotted fine Indrid’s clothes, he insisted on giving them the most expensive room, one looking out into the forest towards the mountains. They’ll reach his family's home in two days, and any apprehension Indrid feels about seeing them after so many years of absence is soothed by Duck being beside him. 

That, and the fact he can tell them that his employment is secure for the foreseeable future. Aubrey has kept him on as staff, though her motive is very different from that of her uncle. While she tries to maintain the fortune to some degree, she’s much more interested in having Indrid locate or predict the ways her money could do the most good for someone else. And so he spends his days evaluating and researching noble causes, disasters, and social news in order to generate his recommendations. He often does this in the gardens, with plenty of breaks to stop and talk with his favorite gardener. Then, each evening, he walks back across the grounds to his home, and spends the remainder of his waking hours with Duck.

And those waking hours often involve the same look he caught Duck giving him just now.

“Thought I might write a letter to the Hall, let folks know how we’re gettin’ on. That’s assumin’ Aubrey and Dani have come out of their room at any point.”

“Goodness, I should hope they have, the wedding was two weeks ago.”

“Hey, nothin makes you lose track of time than havin’ someone good-lookin in your bed.” Duck’s weight dips the bed behind him, calloused fingers pushing his Banyan up his legs.

“True.” Indrid sets his sketchbook on the floor, rests his face against the blanket as Duck massages his way along his calves and thighs.

“Hmm, looks like the marks from a few days ago are gone.” Duck smooths a hand over his ass.

“Pity” Indrid purrs, “I rather like them.”

“You want some more?”

“Only if they are somewhere my family will not see them.”

“Think I can manage that.” Duck’s arms bracket his hips as the gardener kisses along his lower back, and Indrid hums at the soft bursts of sensation. 

Then he yelps as Duck’s teeth sink into the center of his left cheek. Rather than stopping Duck--correctly-- takes the noise as a sign to continue. He bites harder, and Indrid pushes his hips up and back.

“You want another?”

“Yes, yesyes _please_ yes” Indrid gasps when Duck bites the other side with a playful growl.

“Christ it’s fun bein’ rough on you.” Duck delivers a smaller bite to each side, kisses and nips his way up Indrid’s back.

“It’s rather AH, fun on, on my end as well.” He moans into the bed as Duck sucks a bruise into skin.

“Yeah? You still like bein’ at he mercy of a ruffian?”

“Goodness” he laughs, “are you ever going to let me forget that?”

Duck gives a drawn-out “hmmmmmm” of deliberation, drumming his fingers.

“Nope.”

Indrid’s skin crackles with delightful pain as Duck slaps his ass.

“AHhnnnnn” Indrid does his best to muffles his whimpers, “I rather set myself up there, it seems.”

“Sure did.” Two more slaps, “and you ain’t answered me yet.” Four more slaps before Indrid can even form his reply, and they continue even as he speaks, the pain and pleasure zipping up and down his nerves in perfect harmony. 

“I do, oh goodness, I AH love it, love you with your AH rough ways and, AH, country manners and your, ah, rapscallionish charms.”

In place of a hand on his ass, he gets a forehead on his shoulder as Duck collapses with giggles. 

“What? I was merely playing along with your desire to be seen as, ah, uncouth.” Indrid grins sweetly, as if he has no idea how ridiculous he sounded a moment ago. 

“Gotta say, darlin, my bein’ rough has fuck-all to do with that and everythin’ to do with how much you love it. And, uh, how much it means to me that you trust me to be that way with you. You’re the most precious goddamn thing in my world, and you bein’ vulnerable that way makes me wanna fuckin’ treasure you even more.”

Indrid rolls over, lands squarely in Duck’s arms. All trace of the game is gone from those mis-matched eyes. All Duck does is remove his glasses and cup his cheek, caressing it as he leans in to kiss him soft and true. 

“That is truly how you feel about me?”

Duck smiles, sweeter than fresh honey, “Course. Ain’t I made that clear?”

“You, you have. It is just...each time you speak to me that way, I marvel that fate ever thought to send me your way.”

“Weren’t fate, darlin’, just bad weather and a worse boss. And Beacon. Kinda”

Indrid snickers, “A fair point. I suppose that I still sometimes feel as if I do not deserve you.”

“Like hell you don’t.” Duck kisses him again, “After all, I’m just a regular dipshit.”

“Nonsense. You are kind and funny and better in bed than any man in the world.”

“Not sure you got an accurate sample there, darlin.” He’s kissing Indrid’s face and neck languidly now as they talk. 

“Even if I were to sleep with every other man, I would not enjoy it half as much. I predict it. And my predictions are seldom wrong, you know.” He sniffs haughtily, making Duck shake with laughter. 

When the gardener stops, his voice turns earnest, “You really can’t see yourself with anyone else?”

Indrid keeps their eyes locked as he shakes his head. 

“In, uh, in, in that case, would you uh, would you like to get married?”

“Is that a genuine offer, my love?”

“Uh huh. I, uh, I got a ring in my bag but I didn’t wanna ruin the moment by gettin’ up to dig it out.”

“Then the answer is yes. A thousand times yes.” Indrid sees his own trembling smile mirrored on the face of the man he loves, opts to soothe it with a kiss. 

It is not the most passionate kiss in history, nor the most creative happening in the world in the present. But in that moment, the love within it is undoubtedly the truest.

“They are all going to be smug when we tell them back home. Their insistence that there will be a fall marriage will have proven true.”

Duck runs his thumb up Indrid’s cheekbone, look carrying more love than a thousand cupid’s arrows.

“Somehow, darlin', I think we’ll be able to handle it.”

\---------------------------------------------------

“So do we wait to tell them ‘I told you so’ when they return or send it in a letter?” Stern folds up the message from Duck, setting it on the nearby table.

“Whatever you think best, sir.” Barclay replies mildly as he polishes Sterns shoes. 

“Hmm, well, plenty of time to think it over.” He sips his tea, keeping his eyes on Barclay all the while. Generally, shining shoes does not cause such a blush to rise in someone’s cheeks. But his husband has some wonderfully specific tastes. 

“Is that sufficient, sir?” Barclay sits back on his heels, small towel still in his hand. Stern takes his time examining his feet, turning them this way and that so all parts of the shoes catch the firelight. 

“Yes. Very good Barclay. I think that earns you a reward.” He pats his thigh and Barclay scrambles gracefully across the floor to rest his head upon it. The position is automatic for them now, Sterns hand resting in Barclays hair as soon as he arrives, stroking it slowly as he selects a book from the pile on the table (when his mother and sister moved into the Hall with them, they mercifully brought his library with them). 

Last night it was the journals of an explorer in the Americas, read while Barclay steadily fell asleep in his lap. The night before was a collection of folktales from eastern Europe, as they read side by side in bed, Barclay thumbing through a new cookbook.

But tonight he has a very specific plan.

He picks up the book he borrowed from Duck, skimming the pages as his hand finds its usual tender, gentle pace in Barclay’s hair. Once he finds the first of the lewd scenes, he starts slow, with little gasps or appreciative sounds.

“I can see why Duck likes this book; this scene with Gawain is wonderfully explicit.”

A little sound signifying Barclay has heard him, a rub of bearded cheek against his trousers. 

As stealthily as he can manage, he undoes the front of them and palms his cock. A whine reaches him as Barclay figures out what he’s doing. Stern pretends to ignore him, all his focus seemingly on the book. When he switches to more pronounced movements, Barclay whimpers again, and soon he sees the telltale movement of his husband trying to tamp down his arousal. 

“Barclay, please, I’ve just gotten to the good part.”

“Sorry, sir.” Barclay turns his head slightly to better silence himself on Sterns thigh. 

Stern grows louder, thoroughly enjoying treating the cook to a show, touching himself slowly enough that Barclay soon outpaces him.

“Barclay, that’s far too much fidgeting.” He indicates where the other man’s hips are bumping against his leg.

“S-sorry, sir, I can-”

“Nono, that will not do. Sit there.” He points to a spot directly in front of him, far enough away that Barclay can longer rest his head upon him. Barclay doesn’t grumble, keeps his eyes down as he moves. 

“Good boy. Now, since you seem intent on bumping me as I read, you will stay there. But because you’ve been so good all night” he extends his leg, heel resting on the floor and sole of his shoe just resting on Barclay’s groin, “you may continue using that pleasure yourself.”

“J-just your foot?” Barclay looks at him with a mixture of lust and curiosity.

“If that’s not of interest I can always-”

“Nono, no, thank you sir.” Barclay links his fingers over the top of Stern’s shoe reverently. 

Stern looks down at the page, smirking when pressure spreads against his foot. He can’t feel much through the shoe, yet desire courses through him all the same as Barclay jerks against him. 

A glance reveals the cook’s eyes are shut, needy moans spilling out his mouth. 

“Tell me when you’re close.”

He’s only two more paragraphs in when-

“Close, sir, fuck I’m close.”

“Stop.”

Barclay stops immediately. He’s panting is almost loud enough to shake the windows. Stern turns the page.

“Good boy. You may continue, but the same rule applies.”

“Oh _god_.” Barclay goes slower this time, and Stern takes time to savor the view of him, coppery hair falling across his eyes and face lined with blissful concentration. 

“Fuck, fuck sir I’m-”

“Stop.”

A full whine this time. Stern flexes his foot, moving it off of Barclay’s cock. He can see the damp spreading across his pants and it’s deeply satisfying. 

“Sir _please_.”

“Please what? I can’t reward you if I don’t know what you want.”

“I want to cum, sir, please, what you’re doing, it’s driving me wild.”

“How do you want to cum?” Stern arches his eyebrow, tone mild. 

“H-how I was just, uh, just doing it.”

“Which was?”

Barclay gingerly cups his foot, eyes pleading.

“Oh, you want to cum by rutting on me like the pampered creature you are?”

A growling whine this time, Barclay clearly forcing a louder sound to stay put behind his teeth. 

“Be a good boy and say it for me.”

“I...I want to cum by rutting on you like the, the pampered creature I am.” 

Stern smiles, watches Barclay’s face light up as he does, “Perfect. You can continue.”

Barclay hunches forward, hips moving so wildly Stern;s whole leg jolts.

“Thank you, thank you, oh fuck Joseph, sir, thank you, fuck, _fuck_ , nnnnn.” He’s lifting Stern’s foot now Stern moans, both at the feeling of being so utterly desired and revered and in anticipation of what’s to come. 

Barclay tenses, doubling over with rumbling cry of thanks. His hips still twitch as Stern slides out of the chair, sitting beside him and carefully yet firmly lifting his head.

“Do you want to keep going?”

“God yeah.”

“That’s my wonderful, obedient Barclay.” Stern kisses his forehead. There’s a sigh of thanks followed by a garbled gasp of surprise as he yanks his head into his lap and drags his mouth onto his cock. 

“Do you want it all?”

An excited, wide-eyed nod as Barclay sucks at the head. 

Stern pushes in all in one movement, aided by the fact his cock is on the smaller side. Barclay goes limp, his mouth slack as Stern fucks it.

“Nnnn, good boy, you remembered how I like it. You, fuck, you know I really do pamper you. Do you know why?”

“O?” Barclay blinks up at him, groaning each time Stern’s cock bumps his cheek. 

“Because you are the finest, most incredible man in the word, you behave so well for me, you’re so good, and you’re all mine, and, fuck, it is my job to look after you, to fill your days with pleasure, oh, oh lord.” He holds Barclay's head firmly, fucking into his face hungrily as heat radiates out from his gut.

“Would you like, oh fuck, the last bit of your reward?”

Another nod, Barclay’s hand now clinging to Stern’s trousers. 

“Well, ohlord, here it, fuck, here it comes, be a good boy and swallow it all, lord, oh _fuck_ , Barclay, love, yes.”

Spilling down Barclay’s throat never fails to send aftershocks of pleasure through him. His husband laps and swallows and moans, lets out grateful whimpers in response to the pulses of his hips as the last of it leaves him. 

They go boneless in tandem, falling against each other in a pile on the rug. Stern rights himself enough to gather Barclay’s head to his chest, kiss his brow and tell him over and over again how well he did, how much he loves him. He holds him as his breathing evens out, as his eyes lose their glazed-over look. He will hold him as long as he desires, because Barclay is his and he is Barclay’s and nothing has ever mattered more to him than those two truths.

A rumbly, sleepy sound bounces off his chest. 

“What do you need, Barclay?”

“Jus’ you. And, uh, clean pants.” 

“Take everything off for me while I fetch your nightshirt.” Stern pecks his cheek, quickly gets his pants buttoned, and retrieves a damp cloth along with their nightclothes. He cleans Barclay off, helps him dress and guides him into their bed. As he changes out of his clothes, Barclay watches him with a comically love-struck expression. 

“That never gets old.”

“I’m glad. I certainly enjoy when your head in my lap leads to fucking. Though I like it just as well when you fall asleep like that.” He picks up the teapot, pours them each a fresh cup.

“Like it too. But it’s not what I meant. Oh, thanks.” Barclay takes his cup, “I meant just...being here, like this, together. Being husbands. Being in love. I always worry it’ll somehow turn stale but, well, I don’t think it ever will.”

“How could it, with someone as wonderful as you next to me.”

“See? You are a shameless flirt.”

“Only for you, Barclay.” Stern nestles against him. 

Barclay clinks their cups together and winks, “I’ll drink to that. Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> As a note, I'm trying to keep terminology and other details accurate to the year without losing certain aspects of each characters speech. So, in case you haven't noticed, there will be some anachronisms.


End file.
